


Bertie's Beau

by LadyKeane



Series: Bertie's Blog [4]
Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blogging, Desi Character, Epistolary, F/F, F/M, In Flagrante Delicto, M/M, Problematic banjos, Roller Derby, Slice of Life, disney princess songs, drones drones all of the drones!!!!, family feasts, fear surprise and ruthless efficiency, graphic descriptions of indian recipes, hanami and sushi, homophobic relatives, meddling and misunderstandings, my boys are so in love, not actually cheeto voldemort, not actually the paul brothers, numerous Holmesian allusions, pining and parrots and piracy OH MY!, posh nerds, supportive relatives, terrifying aunts, troublesome relatives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-22
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-03-22 13:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 40,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13764885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKeane/pseuds/LadyKeane
Summary: Sequel to 'Bertie's Blog'. The continued memoirs of everyone's favourite Drone, wastrel and social media doyen, Bertie Wooster.





	1. Chapter 1

**21ST FEBRUARY**

It is with great dishonour, readers, that I must confess I am addressing you all from a state of utter depravity and sloth. It is half ten in the morning, a brisk seven degrees out in the bustling suburbs of Blighty, and drizzling miserably - all the while I am nestled under a heaping mound of duvets, on my third cup of sugary Darjeeling. Some hours ago, I was luxuriating in an armful of docile, morning-fresh boyfriend. He's off at the coal-face now, having saddled me with the torment of making reservations for tonight at our favourite Italian restaurant. Verily, some brave soul must sally forth and face all that carb-loading and romantic candle-light.  
  
I do hope that my gloating isn't too loathsome - I'd hate to think that my happiness came at the expense of some of you losing your brunch. But, truth be shouted from the rooftops, the past few months have borne a rather gratuitous spell of giddy delight, pounding hearts, and other such soppy ballyhoo that's got me lookin' so crazy right now. The reason for this excess of ecstasy? That tall, magnificent dream known to all and whatsit as Reginald Mandeep Jeeves.  
  
How can one explain such bliss by using something as dull as language? Shall I describe the wicked charm of his half-smiles, the taste of his lustrous, rolling bass? Shall I diminish with words the way he can make me feel extraordinary and precious, through all manner of gestures, actions and loving glances? Shall I try to evoke the startling sensation of such a man, such a marvel, such a prince, having lain his hat at my brogues and announcing: 'Wooster, you're just the chap for me'?  
  
Not to mention the absolutely mind-blowing sex. The blighter is a stallion, I tell you.  
  
I can sense that the collective desire to pelt cold toast at me has reached critical mass - and I, for one, cannot blame you. A year ago, I was not quite so keen on the old tender pash, having not yet met my ravishing raja. I would have readily joined in the maiming of any gooey-eyed sap who went into such raptures about their boyfriend. But love enacts a curious alchemy upon one's good sense. Now, I simply wish that all of you may one day experience the same euphoric loss of tact and sanity as I have.  
  
Valentines Day was, as you can imagine, especially ridiculous. I fed him up on a rich helping of the rogan josh we had shared on the fateful night of our first meeting, followed by Orchestra Reserve seats to see 'Carmen' at the Royal Opera. He was met at home by a bubble bath, a fruity merlot, a box of dark Belgian truffles and a bed full of Wooster with a vigorous second wind. Such trappings may seem cliche, but damn it, for the first V-Day I would know wrapped in his balmy embrace, I wanted to make an impression. Lord knows the man deserves to be spoiled.  
  
I think it was the third or fourth recounting of the above activities that finally impelled Aunt Dahlia to say: 'Perhaps you should be putting all of this down in that blog of yours, young pustule.' I concede that perhaps I'd been wearing on her nerves a tad.

Speaking of which, I must apologise for my lapse in blogging - I think the above readily explains what has been keeping me so occupied these past few months. (Well, that and my starring role in Roly-Poly Productions' staging of 'Legally Blonde', as the first ever drag Elle Woods. Video excerpts are up on my Youtube channel for your pleasure.) It's just that my normally haphazard life has experienced a period of such clemency - the cozy sentimental fluff of a fool in love is hardly the stuff of compelling narrative. My days of late tend to follow a predictable pattern:  
  
\- Morning sex with Reg. Fantastic.  
\- Rise at 10 or so for eggs and b. and perusal of social media.  
\- Meet my fellow Drones for coffee and idle chinwagging.  
\- Fritter away the afternoon on some small scale project, e. g. babysit Madeline's dog Piglet, make beautiful music with Reg, assist Catsmeat with learning his lines, bake sweet puddings with Reg, be lectured by Aunt Dahlia, afternoon sex with Reg, etc etc.  
\- Dinner with Reg. Marvellous.  
\- Evening shift at the piano bar, noodling out old chestnuts like 'I've Got Rhythm' and 'Despacito' for a few hours.  
\- To round off the night, more sex with Reg. Bloody stupendous.  
  
Hardly epic poetry, do you see?  
That is not to say I am the sort of ignominious pillock who looks a unicorn in the snaggle-teeth. Dear me, no. I recognise my astronomical privilege in being caught in such a feedback loop of intoxicating joy. The moment I am in the presence of my beauteous Reg, I am overwhelmed with the desire to bring a half-smile to his handsome face: to rub his back, pour his tea, make him laugh, and so much else besides. His happiness feeds mine, and likewise compels him to please me in word and deed, and so it escalates. I feel wonderful, he is wonderful, and by crikey it's all just so bally wonderful! I can't help but wonder how  
  
Ah. It appears, dear readers, that the ever mercurial _Deus_ has finally made its presence known _ex machina._  
In the preceding five minutes, I have answered an unsolicited phone call - a rather shrill one, at that, from which my ear has acquired a dull throbbing ache. The upshot is this - instead of gorging myself on fettuccine alfredo and the light in Reg's resplendent eyes, tonight I am required at the table of my Aunt Agatha. Her tone of voice did not seem to impart that this is to be a relaxed affair. No doubt some thankless and wholly repulsive duty awaits. Well, at least there's likely to be an anecdote or two to come for your patient regard. So much for staying in bed. _Dulce et decorum est Pro_ Bertie's Blog _mori_.  
  
And now, to top it off, I just suffered a heinously bad leg cramp, dash it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On something of a tangent, here is a Youtube video of mine that _sort of_ features Bertie performing as Elle Woods: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=37YuT9d6TYk


	2. Chapter 2

**1ST MARCH**

I suppose it was just as well that Aunt Agatha summoned me, as I later got a text from Reg apologising that he would have to work late. As I peered up at my aunt from behind a milky consomme, I spared a thought for my poor beloved, no doubt choking down a stale cheese sandwich and coffee before getting stuck into some horrid paperwork or something.

'So,' I ventured, swirling my spoon around the murky gloop. 'How's tricks?'

'It has become increasingly difficult to convince young ladies of breeding to meet with you,' my aunt griped. 'I managed to talk you up with Lady Louise Windsor, but it appears she only wants to meet you to obtain your autograph. She saw that preposterous musical show you starred in recently, and she seems to have confused you with some ghastly reality television star by the name of "Miss Caught-in-the-Act".'  
'I shall take that as a compliment,' I retorted, actually quite pleased. 'But anyway, isn't Lady Louise Windsor only fourteen?'  
'Furthermore,' she pushed on, her pupils contracting ever so slightly, 'your bad influence has begun to pollute the conduct of other, more respectable members of this family.'  
This I would not stomach, anymore than the small rocks on my plate that laughingly posed as dinner rolls. 'Now see here, Aunt A. You cannot pin Claude and Eustace's latest pub crawl shenanigans on me. Their father was a nutter who hoarded rabbits, for goodness sake!'  
'I am speaking of your Uncle George, you poltroon!' She bellowed, the flatware quaking on the tabletop.  
  
After a snarky sniff, she composed herself and continued. 'He recently acquired an inadvisable obsession with those silly contraptions from the Apple store. Every time I have visited him of late, he has shown me a new swathe of purchases, everything from laptops and phones to something called a 'house-pod'. I went with him on one of these shopping expeditions, hoping to curb his spending. That was how I discovered the source of this unfortunate mania.'  
'A dislike of Bill Gates?' I suggested.  
My aunt's lips puckered into a perfect starfish. 'No, you idiot. There is a young salesman there that has clearly been using his... indecent wiles to charm George out of his money. The great oaf has gotten it in his head that he is in love with this individual. To make matters worse, he is... an Indian.' She expelled this last word with a shudder.  
  
I crossed my arms. 'So, Uncle George has a little crush on one of the boffins from the genius bar. What of it?'  
'Oh, I can't believe even YOU would be that obtuse!' She screeched. 'Your little stunt at the Christmas party, flaunting that subcontinental gigolo of yours about, clearly gave George ideas! I refuse to let this family bear the disgrace of having Lord Yaxley carry on with some upstart brown libertine. You will fix this, Bertie, and ensure he never sees that young man again. After all, you are the one who shall inherit the title from your uncle, and I am resolved to have the both of you comport yourselves in a manner worthy of your peerage!'  
  
This was just about the frozen limit. Her rude remarks thrown at Uncle George's latest flame were one thing, but I would not tolerate the same ill will flung at Reg. I scraped my chair back, calmly dropped my napkin into the consomme, and announced, 'Toodle-pip, aunt. I do hope your nasty attitude keeps you warm tonight. I'm going home to my boyfriend.'  
I gave the dog McIntosh a chummy scratch on the head, grabbed my coat, and slammed the door behind me.

As I headed back to the flat, my anger waned and the heavy hand of guilt began to press upon me. While I did not appreciate Agatha viewing Reg as some kind of peccadillo to be rid of, she did have a point about old George. Jovial and boyish, my dear uncle could be described as a mix of Peter Pan and Toad of Toad Hall. While he is generally affable company, his curiosity and chronic impulsiveness often leads him down troublesome pathways. Most regrettable was his scene phase, during which he dressed in stripy black garments, painted his face and blasted My Chemical Romance from the front windows of his Hampstead townhouse. Understandable behaviour for an adolescent, not so much for a paunchy, fifty-something member of the House of Lords.

I sympathised with this young darling of his, and his chance for a ripe and steady stream of commissions. However, the facts before me did seem to suggest that he was taking advantage of my kin. No Wooster worth his weight would wear this weaselly profiteering. But, unlike my banshee of an aunt, I was open to hearing both sides of the story. I resolved to visit my uncle and let him make his case, with Reg by my side as a trustworthy advisor.

***

When we hoved up to Uncle George's doorstep that weekend, I noted a distinct lack of thumping rock music and experimental cooking smells. Knowing my uncle as I do, it was unclear whether this was a portent of good or ill. The old boy scuttled us into the lounge for the requisite serving of piping hot tea and mountain of home-made biscuits. As we tucked in, I couldn't help but notice the expectant grin George was hi-beaming at me, like a terrier before a liver snap.  
'Well?' he intoned.  
'Beg pardon, uncle?'  
'What do you think?' With this he leapt up and did a saucy little twirl. I couldn't help but notice that the jacket he was confined in was offset by a jaunty patterned cravat, and was quite severely tapered in the waist. I felt a pang of sympathy for the buttons burdened with the duty of containing my uncle's rather jolly midriff. Truth be told, it was quite a conservative ensemble as far as his previous fashion choices went, but all the same I could start to see the vibe he was trying to emanate.  
'Chanel. Distinguished, _n'est-ce pas?_ The picture of a suave and sophisticated silver fox?' He drew a paw through his pompadour. 'What d'you reckon, Reggie? You're a fashion plate. I've also got this jacket in a lovely mauve.'  
I could see a dark cloud pass across my man's face at the thought, and I rested a sympathetic hand upon his. 'Very... striking, m'lord,' he managed.  
'Oh, none of that "m'lord" stuff, m'boy, we're family now! Do call me uncle.'  
'Certainly, uncle.' The silent 'm'lord' hung on Reg's lips like an errant trace of mustard.

'Speaking of which,' George segued, sitting back down and dipping a biscuit into his tea, 'I do so want to get caught up with the pair of you. We had so little time to talk at the Christmas party. How did you two lovebirds get together, then?'  
I looked to Reg, unable to hold in a sappy smile. 'I was lucky enough to land Reg as a next-door neighbour when I house-sat for Boko last year. He taught me how to cook!'  
'Splendid!' my uncle responded. 'So you'd say that the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, then?'  
The smile I was sharing with Reg suddenly became a shrewd side-eye. I leaned back on the couch, tenting my hands. 'If I didn't know any better, Uncle George, I'd say you were currently courting a lovebird of your own...'

'Oh, Bertie,' he oh-Bertie'd, now galvanised to sing many a praise, 'I must have you meet Samar! He's like a spring meadow, an elegant god! But, well... I'm not entirely sure if he's truly keen on me or not. He is so young, you see, and an honest working man. I fear the overtures of an old codger like me may not be entirely welcome. All the same, he's ever so sweet and well-mannered, the most generous boy I've ever met. It may help my suit if some young fellows like you two were to put in a good word for me...?'  
A familiar tired ache draped itself upon me, one that always follows an avuncular request such as this. With a resigned sigh, I gathered the strength to honour this favour. At least if I were to meet this lad, I would be able to discern whether Aunt Agatha's claims were true.

Meanwhile, Reg fixed my uncle with an inquiring eye and asked, 'what was it that attracted you to Samar, initially?'  
George smiled to himself, somewhat sheepishly. 'Well... on a dull grey afternoon, I'm browsing the Apple store in Covent Garden, perusing all their whizbang doohickeys - not in the market for anything in particular. Lo and behold, this enchanting creature, his golden complexion set off by his royal blue t-shirt, crosses my path. He fixes me with a smile so charming that I am ready to hand over my heart then and there. He engages me in small talk, his eyes alight as he describes the resolution and depth-of-field of the new iPhone or what have you. Before I know it, I'm walking out of the store with three bags' worth of gadgets, already fixing to go back.'  
'Did you get the new Series 3 Watch? I hear you can get designer wristbands.' Okay, not the most helpful response, I know.

He dunked a second biscuit. 'Truth be told, Samar's shapely profile reminds me of a girl I had an _affaire de cœur_ with, one glorious year in India.' Taking a wistful bite, he then elaborated. 'It was back in the eighties, during my residence in Amritsar. I was invited to a friend's wedding. Marvellous, it was. Flower garlands, throwing of the rice, all that pomp and ceremony. During the festivities, a troupe of dancing girls in vividly coloured gowns showed up, busking for coins. One of them - siren of a woman - had the crowd transfixed. Her singing and dancing were second to none. I was told her name was Jaipreet, the most famous and beautiful dancing girl in town. Fortune favoured me - I bent her ear with my broken Punjabi, and we tired the moon that night as we shared sweet nothings. After a few months of paradise, she told me she was bound to leave with her sisters for a pilgrimage to Tamil Nadu. We said our sad goodbyes, and I never saw her again.'

Reg's brow had slowly climbed up his face by a whole inch. 'What an extraordinary story,' he murmured.  
My uncle simpered dreamily. 'Samar has the same winsome smile and elegant nostrils as she did.'  
Frowning, I tried to veer the topic back on course. 'But Uncle, how can you possibly know if this bloke is right for you? It sounds like he's just using you to meet his KPIs!'  
'That's what I fear,' he conceded, 'but surely if he realised that I could look after him, he'd have no need for such toil and see me for my better qualities...'  
'You mean being a sugar daddy?'  
His face scrunched a bit at that. 'You make it sound so _sordid_ , Bertie.'

'I believe that Bertram and I visiting him in your stead is a sound idea,' Reg announced. 'Do you know when he is scheduled to work at the Apple store next?'  
'I can do you one better than that,' George told him, looking extremely pleased. 'He gave me his number. What say I contact him and arrange a meeting for the two of you? I'll give you a plate of my macaroons for him, he told me he loves coconut.'

Well, this was a turn-up. If the lad had deigned to give Uncle George his number, perhaps there were deeper feelings in his heart than it seemed. Or at least a penchant for wealthy older gentlemen. Even so, I had to wonder at Reg's reasoning that we were to be the advocates for this whole wheeze.  
I told him so as we headed home on the tube, balancing a shrink-wrapped tray of macaroons in my lap. 'You don't think it a bit awkward that we're going to press my uncle's suit to a man we've never met?'  
He gave a slight shrug. 'It is still often the custom in India for the families of each partner to meet and negotiate the match. I don't believe we are overstepping our bounds.'  
'You have something up your sleeve, don't you?' I grilled him.  
'Wouldn't you like to know, my darling.'  
I kissed that smug quarter-smile right off his blasted handsome face.


	3. Chapter 3

**15TH MARCH**

'Reg?'  
'Yes, my radiant faun?'  
'My scarf, Reg. Your eyes keep gravitating towards it. Wherefore this fixation, beloved? Are you expecting it to jump to life and starting dancing the Dougie?'  
'I could not say.'  
'I suspect you dislike the pattern of little fluorescent yellow atoms. A tad adventurous, I'll grant you, but apropos for making our appeal to this sweetie from the genius bar. One must make an effort, you know.'  
'Just as you say. I hear that fluorescent yellow is also advantageous on construction sites.' It was clear he meant this to sting.

Such was our conversational bent as we ambled through the bustling neighbourhood of Southall, headed for Samar's flat. I already felt somewhat gauche in my presumption upon the time and attention of a complete stranger. While this Bertram is oft a gregarious sort of bird, eager to meet and mingle with new faces, I could not help but wonder if our presence would be welcome. Usually, when I am called upon to play cupid by a heartsick friend or relation, the a. of said person's e. is already known to me. This tends to go a long way in assisting my cause: Listen to your good pal Bertie, you already trust the old crumpet with your life, remember how he always shared his Haribos with you back at school, etc etc. With Samar, I could boast no such chumminess - the only assets to hand were a questionable scarf and a plate of macaroons (which had definitely not been picked at). Reg's sartorial snobbery was not helping matters.

Away from the clamour of the main drag, we came upon a tidy little row of flats on a somewhat quieter street. Once we found our intended address, I couldn't help but notice the fragrant and very well-tended herb garden situated in the minuscule front courtyard. Jolly impressive, I thought, that a bright and busy stripling like Samar could cultivate such a thing in between hawking the newest iWhatsits and seducing minor aristocrats.  
Reg knocked on the door smartly (my own hands being full of macaroon), and we heard some muted scuttling from within. Two things clobbered my senses as the door swung open: a heavenly bouquet of simmering spices wafting out from the kitchen (no doubt exploiting the yield of that garden), and the sight of a robust older woman in a kaleidoscopic saree, staring us down like a sergeant major. Well. I should really know by now that whatever my mission, the fates always conspire to drop an aunt or two into my path.  
'Mormons?' She asked us curtly. ' _Mainū dilacasapī nahīṁ hai!_ '

While her grimace was starting to liquefy my patella, Reg was unassailable. Before she could slam the door, he tipped his hat and began to weave his magic, addressing her with fluent Punjabi in his deep soothing tones. I watched with some amusement as the hard lines on the old girl's map started to erode into a sickeningly maternal smile. Despite Reg's patient tuition, my grasp of that most noble language is rather iffy, but I did catch the phrases 'Good afternoon', 'friends', 'interest' and 'Lord Yaxley'.

At the sound of these last two words, the aunt's eyebrows shot up like rubber bands. She looked to me for a moment, and without further ado hauled us both inside, yammering away excitedly to Reg and grabbing the tray of macaroons off me.

We were seated on the couch as she popped into the kitchen to prepare some tea and roti to have with the biscuits, and I was filled in on the basics.  
'I believe you should address her as " _Maiḍama_ ". She is Samar's aunt, and it appears she is quite amenable to the match between he and Lord Yaxley. She has told me that her nephew is working back today, but will be home soon.'  
'I say, Reg, that's quite _preux_ of her, what? I was given the impression that most of the older folk from India are less than thrilled about blokes being with other blokes. Nice surprise to see an aunt be so open-minded.'  
He pursed his lips a little at this. 'I confess I was rather anticipating she would respond accordingly, but I agree it is propitious.'

She re-emerged with the nosh, laden with two large plates and a teapot. As she sipped her tea, she continuously ran her eyes over me with dedicated enthusiasm. As she did this, she fired off a number of short questions at Reg, which he answered with increasing hesitancy. I grazed on a jittery roti and tried to ignore the rising feeling of being an antelope sitting before the jaws of a tigress.  
  
'So,  _Maiḍama,_ old thing,' I piped up, making an attempt to hack at the tension in the room. 'Do you feel that Samar and Uncle George will want to take it slow, or should we expect to get our best sarees and tuxes out of mothballs post haste?'  
Reg translated for her, no doubt trimming a lot of the frills. She then fixed me with a scrunched-up look that reminded me of Barmy Fotheringay-Phipps when he read the first page of 'A Brief History of Time'.  
' _Ki'uṁ tuhāḍā thaiya?'_

At this juncture, we heard the jingling of keys in the lock. ' _Masi, maiṁ ghara hāṁ..._ ' came the greeting from the doorway.  
It's always an interesting phenom. to meet a hitherto unseen person about whom much fanfare has been made. It's sort of like seeing a film star play a character from a book, after you've gone around holding a distinct picture of them in your head. If I could pinpoint the way I imagined Uncle George's sweetheart to be, I would suggest visions of boy bands and lush Bollywood romances. Samar was certainly not ugly - regular, calm features and a rather nice set of dimples, but, well... the chap had a receding hairline. I suppose to a man of Uncle George's years, someone who is clearly on his way to becoming middle-aged is practically a spring chicken. The thick spectacles were a surprise as well, if I'm being honest.

'Oh, hello,' he said to Reg and I. 'You must be-'  
True to auntly form, she pounced before he could get another word in. I well recognised the look of nephewly fatigue that only served to further age his features. With nary so much as a what-ho-old-boy, she grasped Samar's hands and pressed them to mine. In her glee she began to sing a poignant classical-style tune. It _was_ rather pretty, but it really didn't help to explain what the devil was going on.  
I look plaintively to Reg for help. He was preoccupied, glaring at Samar with a cold hardness that could well have turned him into a bespectacled, balding ice lolly. 'I believe there has been a misunderstanding,' he rumbled. 'Mister Bhattal, would you kindly unhand my boyfriend?'

Samar rolled his eyes and dropped our joined hands. ' _Masi_...'  
She nixed her serenade, and what followed was a punchy, charged exchange between herself, Reg, and Samar. Her eyes darted between us, and a moment of epiphany briskly splashed itself across her face. She then lay into her nephew without mercy, once again true to auntly form.

As Samar was left to try and shield himself from a siege of scolding, Reg elucidated.  
'Bertram, she was operating under the misapprehension that _you_ were Lord Yaxley. That is why she took such a keen interest in your... attributes.' I squirmed a bit at this. 'Samar has explained the situation, and now it appears she has changed her mind. She was hopeful of Samar marrying a man of title and wealth, but not one of your uncle's advanced age.'  
It was all suddenly like crystal now. 'Ah, so that must have been what that hand-fasting wheeze was about!'  
'Indeed - she was singing a prayer to bless the match.'  
I snickered a bit, and felt a tad mischievous. 'You know, she wasn't entirely wrong. I _will_ be Lord Yaxley one day, God help us all. Perhaps we should tell her that, and see if she comes around again to my marrying Samar...'  
'Over my dead body, my jewel.' I won't lie, the dark and dangerous glint that sparked in my man's eyes was rather gratifying.

'I'm sorry about my auntie,' Samar told us, as the lady went off to fume over a second pot of tea. 'I like your uncle, he's a card, but I don't actually want to settle down with him.  _Masi_  pushed me into giving him my number - she has been hell bent on marrying me off to a wealthy toff since I brought her here.'  
I felt a warm kinship with the bloke bloom in my chest. 'But she's all boomps-a-daisy for you marrying a chap? I must say, I'm impressed at her open-mindedness. My Aunt Agatha seems to have made it her life's work to make me as straight as a spirit level.'  
He chuckled at this. 'Oh, she's a good soul. She's my mother's sister - when I was little, she was thrown out of the family for pursuing the life that she did. Then I came out, and left the family myself, vowing to find her and bring her to London with me. I wanted to make sure she was looked after. It took me a while to track her down, too - she was living down in Tamil Nadu until last year.'  
'How very kind of you,' Reg remarked, seeming now to have warmed to Samar. 'I must insist that we invite the two of you to dinner with Lord Yaxley, as a way to make amends for the confusion.'  
'Oh, what a topping idea!' I blurted. 'Samar, I'm guessing that a weeknight might work best, as you're in retail? I can contact Uncle George and arrange it. And look, don't worry about your virtue, I'll explain everything to him. Anyway, Reg has recently taught me how to make kadhi pakora from scratch, and I've been itching to cook it again.'

I could see his eyes glaze over, ever so slightly, with gastronomical promise. 'Sounds great, count us in.' Refocusing, he turned to Reg. 'You're Reggie Jeeves, yes? I know your brother-in-law Vikram. You helped his cousin get out of her arranged marriage to that creep on the ASDA board of directors, and convinced her dad to let her go to Imperial College London. Her family were really enthusiastic in singing your praises.'   
I veritably blazed with pride. 'That's my Reg!'

***

 When I reported in to Uncle George, his response seemed as sorrowful as that young chap who was buried under the linden tree. One could not blame him - not only did his _objet d'affection_ spurn his love, but said _objet_ was to be dangled before him for a whole evening. Throw a bonus aunt into the mix and the result was not exactly the happy ending he'd envisioned. All the same, he valiantly promised to come along, duly starching the northern part of his kisser to bear it. I mean, he _is_ a Wooster, after all.

On the evening of our little get-together, I found myself elbow deep in stirring the burgeoning kadhi, resolute that it should not get lumpy. Uncle George, or the morose husk thereof, loped into the kitchen with a doleful what ho. The dashing Chanel jacket was no more, a tired old tweed in its place.  
'Do bear up, uncle. What is it the poets say? It's always darkest just before a sailor's delight, or something? Who knows what new joys could await you on the morrow?'  
He let go of a sigh. 'I suppose you're right, young'un. I've been considering relocating out to my summer home in Sussex - just ridding myself of all my real estate here in the big smoke and living like a country squire.'  
'You'd also be a good fifty miles away from Aunt Agatha.'  
'Yes, that didn't escape my attention. Are those soan papdi?'  
'Help yourself, old blood relation.'

He assisted Reg and I in setting the table, after which we all lingered over the kitchen island and the little cubes of soan papdi.  
'I did say seven-thirty, did I not? I wonder what's holding them up?'  
'It is customary in Indian culture to never arrive on time to a social meeting - similar to the trend here of being "fashionably late",' Reg informed me.  
'Ah. Come to think of it, us Drones have a penchant for tardiness. Makes it awfully hard when we're meeting to see a film or a show or what have you. Usually we'll have to agree to meet at least an hour early just to make it for the overture. I remember one time, Freddie Widgeon and I agreed to meet Bingo Little at-'  
There came a knock at the door, just before I could really gather steam.

Reg elected to answer it, greeting our guests and gallantly taking their coats. As a steady stream of chitchat in Punjabi filtered in from the hall, I could see my weathered uncle begin to perk up a little, like a pointer on the trail of a pheasant. The strains of his cherished Samar were no doubt already striking his nerves, and I sympathised.

I don't know how many of you are acquainted with the typical aspects of the average Bollywood film: not just the elaborate musical numbers, but the tales of star-crossed lovers, cheesy acting, and all manner of other histrionics. If you are, then you'd be forgiven for thinking that I lifted the following from some such movie. However, as I live and breathe, I solemnly attest that what I recount here is pure unadulterated fact.

Just as Uncle George was lifting another soan papdi to his lips, all heads turned to Samar's auntie as she emitted a shriek that would have impressed even the crowd at a One Direction concert. She had locked her fierce gaze firmly onto George, as if he was the beginning and end of all things, and the middle to boot.  
_'Bāndara!'_ She cried. Meanwhile, the sweet had fallen out of my uncle's hands to the tiles beneath.  
'Jaipreet!...' He stood, an enormous, beaming smile growing across his rosy face. 'Good heavens above!...'  
She laughed, and he laughed, and suddenly she had flung herself into his eager arms. Samar looked just as astounded as I, offering a wide-eyed, baffled shrug.

Reg leaned into me. 'My aunt Geeta once told me all about Jaipreet, the most famous and celebrated hijra in all of Amritsar. Her beauty and the virtuosity of her singing captivated all who saw her. After an ill-fated love affair with an Englishman, she joined her comrades in a pilgrimage to Koovagam - a place sacred to all hijras - and was never heard from again. The urban legend says that she died of a broken heart, but I overheard a recent rumour that she was alive and living in London.'  
I gawped, as gawpily as one can. 'By Jove! You don't mean to say... did you know this all along!? That Samar was the nephew of Uncle George's long lost love!?'  
'I could not be sure, but the details of your uncle's love affair gave me pause. I suspected that if the rumours of Jaipreet's reappearance were true, it would be possible to reunite the two of them. And while I did not initially know of Samar's connection to the lady, it appears my instincts about that were also correct.'  
'Your instincts were bally well on fire, Reg,' I responded, and my heart clenched as I saw a tear escape down my uncle's cheek while he embraced his paramour. Samar, for his part, looked slightly relieved.

'Hijra, eh? I think I remember hearing the term in a Vice documentary,' I mused  
'Hijras are the oldest community of transgender women in the world, Bertram. Despite marginalisation since the British Raj, they maintain an important role in the spiritual and cultural traditions of India to this day. It is considered extremely good luck to receive their blessings.'  
'Well! More good news! Maybe after she joins this family, Jaipreet's providence will rub off on us, and Aunt Agatha will take a vow of silence!'  
'One can only hope, my duckling. Now shall we plate up?  The pakoras will get too soggy otherwise.'

Over our repast, I offered him the sacrifice of my fluorescent scarf in gratitude, but the blighter revealed that he'd already bagged it for the local charity shop.  _C'est le_ fashionisto boyfriend, I suppose.

***

I checked in with Uncle George the next week, popping into his club in St James. The love of a good woman had, in a short time, done wonders. He was in bonhomous top form, his clothes flashy and his pompadour as voluminous as I'd ever seen it. He thrust a brandy upon me as we sank into padded leather armchairs.  
'I'm still making good on my plans to move out to Sussex, you know. You and Reg shall be welcome any time, if you want to escape the city for a bit.'  
'Thank you, uncle. But what does Jaipreet make of this?'  
  
He smirked the smirk of a brat with a hidden stash of chocolates and matchbox cars. 'I've asked her to marry me. She shall become Lady Yaxley and live like a queen. We'll be flying in her sisters from her commune for the ceremony. We were thinking of a Summer wedding, with a jasmine and gold motif.'  
'Well, congratulations, my hearty old bean! I couldn't be more chuffed!' I raised my snifter in tribute. 'She shall be quite the regal matriarch. You know, you really should consider selling your story to one of those womens' rags, it would fly off the news-stand.'  
  
'I think I'll leave that chronicling to you, young wordsmith. By the way, I'm aware that your birthday is fast approaching, and I'm rather keen to fob off my London properties to willing recipients. I've already got a buyer for my Hampstead townhouse and those trendy converted lofts in Chelsea, but I'm having a spot of bother in unloading that old art deco flat in Mayfair. Do you and Reg want it?'  
After choking on an errant mouthful of brandy, and coughing and spluttering out my organs onto the rug at my feet, my most generous codger of a relative thumped my back and accepted my heartfelt thanks. I most strongly affirm that the blessings of the hijra aren't just a heap of bananas.

***

Tucked snugly away betwixt a royal embassy and a boutique gallery, the palatial pad that Uncle George pitched to us was quite the gratuity. I paced about its spacious interior, soaking in its vintage moldings, plush carpeting and marble fireplace. I couldn't help but shake my onion in disbelief.  
'You really want to entrust a swanky residence like this to _me?'_ I couldn't help but splutter.  
He waved a nonchalant paw at me. 'Why not? Someone's got to live here. Better you than an unscrupulous oil baron. Lord Yaxley looks after his own.'

I noticed Reg gazing out of the high arched windows at the busy Mayfair street below, looking even more contemplative than usual.  
'You know, I'd rather you didn't feel pressured to move in here if you didn't want to,' I assured him. 'I know you like the flat in Fulham. I don't want to make you feel like a kept man, or a pet of the titled and chinless master of the house.'  
He faced me, his dark eyes aglow with a tenderness that made me come over all jelly-esque.  
'It would be no such ignominy. I would consider it an honour to live here with you. I could think of nothing that would delight me more, my seraph.'  
I reached for him as a brat reaches for his matchbox cars. 'Then we shall _both_ be masters of the house,' I promised him.

After a rather delicious snog, the schmaltzy atmosphere dissipated abruptly, thanks to the strident blaring of 'The Imperial March' from my phone.  
I answered. 'Aunt Agatha. To what do I owe the pleasure?'  
Her tone was singularly cordial, by which I mean she wasn't rattling my cochlea with her snarling. 'Bertie, I must say. While I am not exactly over the moon to hear of your uncle's upcoming nuptials, it is still a better outcome than I thought you capable of producing. I have often tried to impart to George the importance of taking on a suitable woman to be Lady Yaxley. It is not ideal that his fiancee is a foreigner, but at least she is a lady of respectable age. And I was surprised to behold her elegant beauty! Your great-grandfather did marry a Belgian, come to think of it. Perhaps this is for the best - the good example set by your uncle may finally give you something to emulate in respect to finding a wife of your own.'  
She continued to prattle on, but I'm afraid I zoned out at this point. After placating her with a few 'Yes, auntie's, she thankfully rang off.

'Looks like Jaipreet's got another fan,' I told my uncle. 'She told me about her introduction to your fair lady.'  
'Coo!' He cooed. 'Had I been told a day would come that old Aggie would take a liking to a transgender Indian gal, I would have eaten my entire vinyl collection.'  
'If I may make a suggestion, m'lord - uncle, it is perhaps best not to enlighten your sister about the particulars of your fiancee's status. As the bard Lennon wrote, "living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see."'  
'Quite. Speaking of music, what say you to a perky little baby grand making its home in this corner?...'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Native speakers of Punjabi are more than welcome to drag my poor grasp on the language :)
> 
> 'Mainū dilacasapī nahīṁ hai!' - I am not interested!  
> 'Maiḍama' - Madame  
> 'Ki'uṁ tuhāḍā thaiya?' - Why your uncle?  
> 'Masi, maiṁ ghara hāṁ...' - Auntie, I'm home...  
> 'Masi' - Auntie  
> 'Bāndara' - Monkey (Jaipreet's pet name for Uncle George :D)  
> Kadhi pakora - a punjabi curry of vegetable dumplings in spicy yoghurt sauce. Scrummy!!!!!!  
> Soan papdi - a popular sweet from North India, flaky little cubes made with caradmom.  
> Hijra - an ancient group throughout India and South Asia who are biologically male and transition to female. While not exactly the same as transgender women (they are considered a third sex), many hijras do identify as such. They are believed to have special spiritual powers, given their existence outside the 'normal' gender binary. Unfortunately they face many of the same hardships as transgender women, having been oppressed since the days of the British Raj.


	4. Chapter 4

**2ND APRIL**

You know, it's quite mind-boggling - if boggling is the verb I want - to consider just how much sundry crap and detritus us humans are capable of amassing. I mean, not a soul upon this earth can truthfully say that they require more than one pair of wellies to function optimally. And yet, I have found that in a single winter, I managed to acquire no less than three blasted pairs. (My favourite of the bunch is a spiffy canary yellow pair with the Hufflepuff crest embossed on the sides. The Drones is not the only institution to which I am a devoted member - Pottermore never lies.)  
  
Those of you who are quick on the draw may have figured out the reason for this brooding about material possessions. Although Uncle George's gift of an opulent Mayfair flat was indeed the out and out record-breaker of all my birthday gifts, it came with one painful and unavoidable caveat: Reg and I packing up all our worldly goods and tchotchkes, and having to actually heave them off to our new abode.  
On my part, this was made doubly gruelling, as a good portion of my older things were still piled in a corner at Brinkley Court. Aunt Dahlia, of course, couldn't wait to see the back of them. In addition to all my books, clothes, and not to mention my well-aged collections of CDs and DVDs, she managed to foist on me two beaten-up night tables and my schoolboy desk - still adorned with yellowing Pokémon stickers. Nothing complements a tasteful wainscotted master suite like discoloured Jigglypuffs and Pikachus, wouldn't you say?  
  
After many long days of such travails, we were finally installed into our new love-nest at the beginning of last week. Although we were surrounded by monolithic stacks of unpacked boxes, there was still time for a laid back birthday-slash-housewarming party. Many a Drone was present, and sweetest dearest cousin Angela had the philanthropy to bring over a large case of cider and a Colin the Caterpillar cake.

Her beau Tuppy Glossop cornered me, a bouquet of Doritos and Stella Artois on his breath. 'Bertie, old son,' he announced, 'I believe I have beaten you at your own game.'  
'You beat out my high score on Mariokart?' This was most distressing.  
'What? No, I mean game as in _game_. Your career as a vlogging personality.'  
'But I don't do Let's Plays.'  
He sighed, and tried again. 'I got a tip that Youtubers sponsored on crowdfunding sites are able to collect quite the largesse. Much better than the paltry offerings Youtube itself offers after all the stakeholders have nabbed their share. So I thought to myself, why not get in on that gravy train, and produce videos statistically most likely to rack up the views? Musical theatre kids like you are, for the most part, rather middling in their success. I believe _your_ most popular video has only about 800,000 hits.'  
I would not wear this blow to the Wooster pride. 'I'll have you know that my barbershop quartet rendition of 'You'll Be Back' was retweeted by Lin Manuel-Miranda himself! Or, well, retweeted by his social media team, at least.'  
Tuppy was unmoved. 'Anyway, I've found a far more effective genre of video with which to amass viewers and patrons both.'  
'Which is?'  
'Prank videos,' came the voice of my cousin Claude.  
'They're all the rage,' came the voice of my cousin Eustace.  
The blighters had popped up behind me without warning, clasping their grubby little fingers about my shoulders. I had nearly dropped my drink, and as my heart restarted, I got a pleasing mental image of scrunching them both up like newspaper and using their indolent hides to clean the carpet with. It would be the first time either of them would have contributed to housework, that's for sure.

'We've been collaborating with Tuppy for the past few months. After posting only a dozen videos or so, we've already made the worldwide trending list twice!' Claude declared.  
'And has Tuppy been sharing the proceeds with you?' I queried.  
Tuppy sniffed. 'Sixty-forty. The channel and the crowdfunding were both my idea.'  
'Actually, it's more like sixty-twenty-twenty,' Eustace pointed out.  
'Well, I do make the odd Vine compilation on the side,' Tuppy retorted.  
'Here, do you want to see our best one?' Claude thrust his phone before me, and after a sponsored ad, I was treated to the apogee of their creative merits.

The video was titled 'NO-ONE EXPECTS'. I immediately recognised the sun-dappled surrounds of Gloucester Green Square in Oxford. A young couple were shown ambling about, carefree and tranquil, until my cousins leaped out at them from behind a parked car, dressed in the red robes of the Spanish Inquisition and screaming bloody murder. I admit I cracked a smile when the young bloke reflexively lobbed his iced coffee at them in self-defence.  
The rest of the video consisted of near-identical scenarios: Claude and Eustace, Spanish Grand Inquisitors, jumped out from telephone boxes, alleyways, etc, terrorising half of Oxford's population. I'm sure you've seen other such videos consisting of similar misanthropic dreck. To my dismay, the gag got progressively more distasteful with each repetition. They frightened young children and old ladies, harrassed shopkeepers, and in one instance crept up on an unsuspecting student weighed down with a pile of books, and shocked her into dropping them to the damp ground beneath. It really makes you despair for the future of our species. I've half a mind to buy Claude and Eustace a matching pair of vasectomies for their own birthday.

The three of them, of course, were hooting with laughter at the above vignettes. If you wish to see other such monstrosities, their channel boasts other videos with titles like 'CATFISHING WHILE DRUNK', 'FOLLOWING CLAUDE'S PROFESSOR AROUND WITH A SCHOOL RECORDER', 'SHOPPING TROLLEY DRAG RACING - INSIDE TESCO!' etc. Though I advise against subjecting yourself, I highly recommend you have a stiff drink at the ready to endure it. I cringed so much that I developed a cramp in my forehead.

'Let me see if I have this right,' I said. 'Tuppy films Claude and Eustace tormenting innocent people, you post this sleazy material... and people willingly give you money for it?'  
'Some of the money does help fund the content,' Claude affirmed.  
'We just bought a loudspeaker and a fart machine!' Eustace announced proudly.

I then noticed that Angela had coasted up beside me. 'You three are all top-grade gormless prats,' she snarled.  
'So you've already seen this?' I asked her.  
'They tried to make me participate in one of these videos! They wanted me to be a lookout as they attempted to set fire to a fire hose reel.'  
'It's called irony, Angela,' Tuppy retorted.  
'It's called accessory to a felony! One of these days, you lot will go too far and reap the consequences! At the very least, your account will be suspended.'  
Tuppy tchah'ed grandly at this. 'Why is it that you girls are always the ones to get offended by harmless jokes? It's not like we're hurting anyone.'  
'Gosh, just like spam emails, tailgaters and body odour. What a stellar PR angle. Come on Bertie, let's go talk with the grown-ups.' And she hauled me off.

***

As I spent the next few days unpacking each gadget and doodad into their respective niches, I thought a lot about my cousin. (The good one, Angela. Not the twins.) She had been with Tuppy since our time at Oxford, and had experienced perhaps a single week of romantic bliss in several long-suffering years. He'd always been one of those chaps whose chronic self-interest had made him blind to the needs of those around him. Case in point: for their first anniversary, Angela had gotten him tickets to the Eurogamer Expo, including a VIP pass to a meet-and-greet with that bloke with the glasses from the memes (I just Googled him. Gabe Newell, that's the baby). Tuppy, in return, got her a set of gel pens. Justifiably, Angela threatened to shove them right up Tuppy's 'Valve'. That, in a nutshell, illustrates their entire relationship.

While I was with Ginger, I didn't make much of this, as I was mired in something of a one-sided romance myself. (The scant times he was actually home, Ginger would consider it an onerous task to even prepare tea for me - even then, he could never remember how I take it. And the less said about the bedroom, the better.) Reg, on the other hand, has made Princes Charming, Edward, Ali Ababwa, and William all seem like the lesser brothers of Piers Morgan. Now I had some perspective on how a proper boyfriend behaves, it troubled me to think of what my dear coz continued to endure. I couldn't help but feel impelled to enact a bit of the old _noblesse oblige._  But the prospect of taking a sow's ear of a sow's ear like Tuppy and trying to fashion a gentleman out of him rather weakened my constitution. Code of the Woosters or not, some of Duty's mandates make me want to spin on my heel and stray down smoother walks. Like maybe learning a new instrument or something.

As it happens, the stern daughter of the voice of God called upon me - that is to say, Aunt Dahlia. I bid her sit with us in our semi-unpacked kitchen.  
'I'm afraid we only have teabags and instant coffee to hand, Mrs Travers,' Reg apologised.  
She waved a benignant hand. 'Not a problem, dear. Now, young pestilence, to business. That Glossop boy continues to vex my poor Angela.'  
I was wise to her. 'You've seen his Youtube channel, then? Petty puerile stuff.'  
She held out her phone to me. 'Take a look at what the louse uploaded this morning.'

I did, and quickly regretted it. The title of the new video was ' _*~*~BELLIBOO~*~*_   DOES TUPPY'S MAKE-UP', and featured a girl I know as Cora Bellinger, giggling like a dentistry patient while painting Tuppy's bloated face with some of the most severe contouring I have ever seen. I'm not sure what unsettled the contents of my stomach more: the vulgar flirting, the twins' demeaning and misogynistic off-camera quips, or the freakish new shape of Tuppy's cheekbones.

Cora Bellinger, aka _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ , is a fellow Youtuber I have run into at the odd vloggers' meet-up, and we share something of an uneasy acquaintance. She is one of those fillies who appears to be all smiles and sunshine on the outer crust, but she conceals a deadly arsenal of backhanded compliments, passive aggression and dismissive hair tosses. She fancies herself as something of a rival to me, given our shared field of musical theatre numbers. However, let me say here that I have little interest in competing against a girl who only does vanilla-as-whatsit covers of ingenue songs, with sampled karaoke tracks as her backing. Well, that and her make-up tutorials. Views and sponsorship deals she may have, but inventiveness she has not. Why, she can't even play an instrument. It would behove her to learn the ukelele. Then, at least, she wouldn't have to rely on the same cutesy, royalty-free music track for all her NARS and NYX testimonials.

'Angela tells me she caught them canoodling over lattes at Ealing Broadway the other day,' Dahlia informed me grimly. 'My son-in-law-to-be's boorishness is one thing, but this I will not stand for. You have a name for yourself in the vlogger community, do you not? Surely you can correct Glossop's wandering eye and make this 'Ballyhoo' lass see sense.'  
'I'm not an ophthalmologist, if that's what you mean,' I riposted. This remark was not taken in the intended spirit, if her use of a teaspoon as a truncheon was anything to go by.

'My only daughter is a peerless treasure, and I will not have her wronged like this! Against her better judgement, Angela loves the big dope, and I am determined that he shall at least hold himself to a standard above that of a rutting warthog. If you love your cousin you'll do this for her!'  
I nodded firmly. 'I stand with you, aged relation. But how do you suggest I turn Tuppy off this self-styled Heather?'

The serene sound of a white-tailed stag, huffing softly around a mouthful of alpine wildflowers, reached us from beside the tea kettle. By which I mean Reg cleared his throat.  
'It appears to me, Mrs Travers, that the crux of the matter is in dissolving the fascination between Mr Glossop and this young lady.'  
'Indeed it is,' I responded. 'But how, my sweet, do you suggest I nip said fascination in the bud? Tuppy never listens to my counsel, and I am not exactly bosom chums with  _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_.'  
'It occured to me that your common vocation of musical performance maybe a useful tool. In the interests of alliance, you could propose to her some form of video collaboration of your own. You can elect a piece that would repulse Mr Glossop. Given his limited interest in musical theatre, this should not be hard to do. Seeing her in a light that he considers unflattering, Mr Glossop's fancy for her will dissipate. And, given his propensity to voice his disdain quite frankly, the young lady will likewise grow tired of him.'  
  
I hemmed and hawed for a moment. ' _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ has done some pretty mawkish videos in the past... she once sang a 'Snow White' medley dressed in a flower crown, surrounded by plush toy woodland critters.'  
'Let it go,' my aunt advised.  
'I can't! You just instilled in me the importance of keeping Tuppy faithful to Angela!'  
'Let it go!' she repeated.  
I was most vexed. 'Why this sudden change of heart, auntie? You came all this way here to give me my orders, and now-'  
'Bertram, my snowdrop, I believe Mrs Travers is referring to the song from the film 'Frozen'.'

There are a number of videos to my name that could be described as silly. The liberal use of the kazoo within my ouvre has often been commented on. And I suppose you could argue that doing parodies of Weird Al Yankovic songs is a little superfluous. But I strongly maintain that I still have my standards.

'Aunt Dahlia,' I said with as much gravitas as I could hold in my lyric tenor voice. 'It's 2018. 'Let it Go' has gone from naff to beyond naff, to some form of torture that even drug cartels are hesitant to perpetrate.'  
'Which is why it's perfect!' She insisted. 'If you sing that song with her, Glossop will go off her like spoiled milk.'  
'But I'm a musician! I have principles! Like never try to harmonise with a scat singer. And always let the sopranos hold the last note as long as they please.'  
'You sing other Disney songs, I don't see what the problem is. You once performed that song from 'Mary Poppins' with Dick Van Dyke's ridiculous mockney accent.'  
'But I was young and flippant during my Sherman and Sherman phase!'

Reg's brow tilted downwards a third of an inch, which indicated he had a thought. My aunt and I turned to him, receptive acolytes.  
'You could tell Ms Bellinger that the two of you should perform the song with a subtle tongue-in-cheek spirit. As you are no stranger to comedic performance, Bertram, you will find this easy. Furthermore, I doubt such a nuance would be caught by someone like Mr Glossop.'

I took a moment to consider this. Perhaps this was the kind of prank I could get behind. Laugh it off and explain it away as a gag performance. Given  _*~*~Belliboo~*~*'s_ fondness for Tuppy's own pranks, this tactic would possibly make the prospect of singing the damned thing a tad more palatable for her.  
I straightened my back and took a steadying breath, thinking of Agincourt. 'For Angela, then. I don't care what they're going to say. Some people are worth humiliating oneself online for.'

***

 


	5. Chapter 5

**15TH APRIL**

Well, ha bloody ha. Just so you know, you're all rotters.

I'm starting to think I've got some sort of subconscious addiction to being the butt of the joke. It would go a long way to explaining a lot of the absurd horseplay I find myself getting caught in. Or perhaps it's my habit of placing a disproportionate amount of trust in the cads and bounders of the world. Whatever the reason, a fainting couch and a tweedy psychotherapist would really hit the spot right about now.  
Anyway, I think it only fair that I get to tell my side of the story about that video, just in case some of you are actually interested. (There I go, giving you all the b. of the d. again!)  
Oh, and I'm pending all comments on this blog from now on.

 _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ bid me meet her at her pad in Chelsea. After an efficient round of air kissing and offers of Pinterest-worthy cupcakes, she arranged herself upon an armchair, and ordered me to plead my case.  
'So, Cora, old thing. I've been thinking about doing a collaboration with someone for a while. Double acts seem to do awfully well, don't you find? Plenty of opportunity for buoyant cross-talk and two part harmony.'  
She simpered at me. 'Oh Bertie, no need to be coy. You can ask _me_ to do a collab! There's no question this has been a long time coming.'  
I couldn't help but feel flattered. 'Really?'  
'I know how desperate you are to work with me. And my influence could really lift the calibre of your little parody videos.' I hadn't known that it was possible for someone to bat their eyelashes condescendingly, but there you go. 

I pushed on. 'Indeed. I was thinking that we could sing something together, some familiar ditty that the punters will love. I know!' I staged a little Eureka moment. 'Why don't we sing 'Let It Go'?'  
I had jumped the gun way too soon. She narrowed her eyes at me like a six-year-old examining a plate of steamed cauliflower.  
'...'Let It Go'? If you want us to do something from 'Frozen', surely a duet would work better. Anyway, that song was done to death years ago!'  
'Well, ah... that's just it, isn't it? 'Let It Go' is _the_ song. The song of songs, if you will. It boasts a notorious and unique reputation - surely our viewers will be intrigued to see why we have chosen to perform the damned thing, and will be hooked as if it were Kardashian click-bait!'

I could sense she was now intrigued, regardless of the furrow that was trying to form on her perfectly matte forehead.  
'And given our combined inventiveness, I'm sure we could come up with a fresh new way to perform it. Something sharp and satirical.'  
'You mean like that fellow who sang it using the voices of Looney Tunes characters?' She retorted.  
'Maybe something a bit classier than that.' I huffed, casting around the great echo chamber of my brain for an idea. 'We could... sing it dressed as members of the Spanish Inquisition. No-one will expect that, eh?'  
My laugh withered under the look she shot at me, and I hid behind a large gulp of tea.  
  
She tented her immaculately manicured fingers. 'You're an odd boy, Bertie Wooster. Look, tell you what. Why don't you just record a video of yourself singing the song normally? No gags, just a straightforward rendition? Send it to me when you're done, and I'll have a think about it myself. See what we can do with the raw material.'  
'Sounds fair,' I said.

King James told us 'pride goeth before destruction', but perhaps the verse should read 'placing too much faith in two-faced, vain little sneaks goeth before worldwide viral ridicule'.

***

Being a good scout, I got started on my little assignment as soon as I got home. This required getting into the right head space: dropping aside all baggage and disdain, and approaching 'Let It Go' as just another stirring, empowering anthem designed to turn frightened girls into frightening aunts-in-training. I also tried putting the air conditioning up to full blast. That did give me goosebumps, which I suppose was a plus.

Pressing 'record' on my camera, and throwing caution to the icy wind, I let it go. And you know, I now understand why the blasted ballad features so heavily in schoolyards across the world. Imagining that one can fling blizzards about on a whim is oodles of fun. I got a particularly wild thrill when I imagined firing a big volley of frost at Aunt Agatha's face. And, if I may say so, I think I did a bally good job of it too. That final E flat was nary a hair off-pitch.

***

After sending the footage of my little diva moment off to  _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ , I confess the whole endeavour slipped my mind for a good week or so. As Reg and I got properly settled into the new flat, there were some pressing issues to address. We are both men of iron will, and in spite of the tender pash we cherish, I'd be damned if I was going to let Reg have the final say in the colour scheme of our new dining room. Slate grey is practically funereal. I couldn't understand why the man was so blind to the virtues of a cheery lime green and orange combo. (Fear not - after a squabble or two in IKEA, we finally agreed upon a serene royal blue. The issue that's facing us now is Reg's unjustifiable bias against scented candles.)

The reminder of my frozen foray came one evening this week. Reg had a dinner meeting with one of his mustier clients in St James, so I found myself kicking about aimlessly. A quick text ascertained that a few of my fellow Drones were at a pub in Dover Street. When I ankled round, I found the great twits at a back table, all huddled around Tuppy's tablet. Intermittent giggles spurted out of them as they gazed at the screen. Once Catsmeat caught sight of me, he yowled 'What ho, Elsa!'

If you have not yet seen the idiotic sketch, then I shall describe it here to spare you the trouble. Claude and Eustace's theme of the Spanish Inquisition had inevitably been built on: Tuppy and  _*~*~Belliboo~*~*_ hammed it up as they played the part of hapless heretics, tied to chairs before the twins in their Inquisitor robes. After a few lines of Wiseau-esque dialogue, it was revealed that the likes of the Judas Cradle and the Comfy Chair were foregone in favour of a wholly different torture. I am sure you can infer the coup de grâce.

To be fair, the editing was quite masterful. Tuppy and * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ were made to writhe in heightened agony whenever I sang the main refrain, and the twins' reactions of sadistic glee were very convincing. Be that as it may, the personal insult and the waves of derisive laughter sort of killed the gag for me.  
  
I held up my head, crossed my arms, and glared icicles at the whole mob. * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ was perched next to Tuppy, and I saved my coldest reproach for her.  
'The Ides of March were last month, Cora.'  
She tittered at me. 'Oh, Bertie. If only there was someone out there who gave a fig.'  
'Surely you can take a joke, Bertie?' Tuppy sneered, adjusting his fedora. 'Look at it this way - at least you got to do the collab that you wanted!'  
At this, * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ splayed a hand daintily across Tuppy's chest. 'Oh, that's right!' She chirped. 'You're so clever, darling!'  
Right before my eyes (and those of several other innocent onlookers), she kissed him.

There was an afternoon long ago when Tuppy, in a rare spirit of generosity, allowed me to play with his Batman action figure. So delighted was the juvenile Wooster, that henceforth I was determined to think the best of the old bean, imagining that some Great Soul slept deep within his hoggish facade - even when he was copying my homework and ratting me out to our house master for contraband Maltesers.  
I could see now that the G. S. I had imagined was but a spectre of my own creation. Through and through, Tuppy Glossop was a hog.  
With a stab of anguish I thought of my sweet coz Angela. Video lampoon or not, I was not the injured party here.

'Glossop, you unbelieveable prat!' I hollered. 'What do you have to say for yourself?'  
'My chief weapon is surprise?' He quipped.  
'Have you told my baby cousin that you've thrown her off for this lipstick-pedalling traitor?' It was not gentlemanly of me to refer to * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ in such a way, but damn it, I was excessively pipped.  
'Oh! We haven't changed our Facebook status yet, Tuppy!' She declared, and promptly snapped a selfie with her painted lips pressed to Tuppy's jowl. A few taps on her phone, and she had uploaded it. 'That cousin of yours will find out soon enough now, Bertie.' Her grin inspired a barely-repressed dry heave.

With my pulse galloping, I rushed out of the pub and headed for the tube, using my furious wish to throttle Tuppy to instead lend speed to my steps. Once I was on my way to Brinkley Court, I managed to fashion an innocuous text to Angela, asking after her without letting slip the catastrophe that loomed. As the minutes trudged past, I got no reply. Horrid images played out in my head of my cousin in a great paroxysm as her heart splintered. So many years of her tender, patient affection, repaid by a hog with pain and betrayal.  
I also thought about Aunt Dahlia, and how she would inevitably pin the blame on me. I found myself genuflecting on impulse.

At long last I reached Brinkley Court, barrelling past Uncle Tom as he was entering the front door. I zipped up the stairs to Angela's room.  
The lights were off. The poor cherub sat on the bed, looking down at the blue glow of her laptop, tears surging down her cheeks.  
'Angela!' I cried.  
'Bertie?' She hiccoughed.

I surged forward and caught her in the bearishest of cousinly bear hugs.  
'My dear innocent squab... I'm so, so sorry.'  
She said nothing, fixing me with a hard glare.  
'If I had known.... if I had only known... but then I suppose it's for the best. That pompous blowfish was never worthy of you!'  
She put her laptop aside, wiped her nose with her sleeve and turned to me fully. 'Bertie, what are you on about?'  
'You don't know?'  
'No!'  
'It's that Glossop! He... oh, by crikey, I don't want to be the one to tell you...'  
She grimaced. 'Tell me what? That he's breaking up with me?' She said this last sentence with no small amount of sarcasm.  
'Well... I mean, that is to say...'  
'You mean he _is?_ '  
I braced myself, and said it. 'He's left you for * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ .'

It was initially rather puzzling to see the enormous grin that brightened her face.  
'By gum, that's a weight off my chest!'  
'Eh?'  
'I've been trying to work up the nerve to dump him for months! Mum seems to think I'm still daffy for him... but you have no idea what a relief this is!'  
Her usual perkiness began to take hold, and my own relief sat alongside a dash of chagrin.  
'I was dreading some awkward, apologetic conversation and a sackful of guilt, but this way I can take the moral high ground. I can probably even get away with screaming and throwing things at him. You must come along to watch, Bertie. We can go out for ice-cream afterwards!'

I crossed my arms. 'I'll do no such thing,' I scolded. 'My dear child, not five minutes ago I was frantic with distress, visions of paroxysms and shattered cousins dancing in my head. I hope you appreciate what I had to go through.'  
'Not really. You brought it on yourself, you dope.'  
'Why were you crying, anyway?'  
To her credit, she did show some guilt at this enquiry. She showed me her laptop screen - 'Toy Story 2' was on pause.

***

I trudged home, feeling the echo of the evening's panic throbbing in my nerves. I then remembered the humiliation of Tuppy and * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_ 's video and a fresh surge of agitation was sent crashing through me. I grimly imagined the snide comments that awaited, both online and from my peers. There are some battles that leave a man with a sense of accomplishment and the clean ache of exertion. And then there are times when a man wants to hide under the duvet until he's ninety. I thought longingly of hot sugary tea.

When I entered the flat, I was assaulted once more by the sound my 'Let It Go' performance. What remaining strength I had swiftly dissipated.  
I had left my laptop open on on the coffee table (a muted shade of sable that Reg fancied - I had decided to pick my battles), and my man was currently watching the unedited video that I had originally sent to * _~*~Belliboo~*~*_  .  
  
'Forgive me, Bertram, I could not restrain my curiosity.'  
I threw up my arms. 'You may as well, Reg. The whole world's going to see it and judge this Wooster to be a fatuous ninny.'  
With his typical acumen, he assessed my frazzled mood, and rose to encase me in a gentle hug.  
'Those with any grasp of musicality will laud you, my blueberry. Your delivery strikes a perfect blend of passion and technique - something sorely lacking from many other inexpert versions of the song. I have watched your video four times already.'  
He pressed a kiss to my crown. Not for the first time, I marvelled at how Reg could give my darkest mood the old 180 with but a few choice words.  
'Well, then, let the trolls rage on. Now how about we put the kettle on?'


	6. Chapter 6

**28TH APRIL**

There are times when it strikes me just how candid this blog really is. I look back on older entries, and often find myself cringing at the multitude of embarrassing tidbits about myself and my loved ones that I have let slip, like some modern-day Hedda Hopper. In case you are wondering, most of the Drones are casual readers at best, but my chronicles do manage to eventually seep into the general gossip of our little group. And given all the times a chum has confessed his  _grande passion_  for some sweetie or another, I consider it a small miracle that said sweeties never broke down my door and grabbed me by the shoulders, demanding an explanation for my loose tongue (loose typing?).

The thing is, I never intended to be so forthcoming about such delicate matters, but this semi-public confessional has inevitably ended up being a source of entertainment for the masses. But I suppose that's the information age for you. I can only imagine what Google is doing with the data on my love of certain biscuit brands and my strong aversion to swans.

It so happens that our privacy - that is to say Reg and I - was most abruptly violated one evening last week, in the old-fashioned analog way. Snuggling up in front of the telly with a pert little merlot, it didn't take long for us to get decidedly cozy, shall we say. Trusting that our domestic sanctum was secure, things progressed the way that one would expect them to, and at length we found ourselves rather bereft of clothing. Naturally, this was the requisite cue for Boko Fittleworth to burst through our front door.

In retrospect I do feel a little bad for the chap. Given his status as our former neighbour, he did patiently endure a good five months of my 'co-habitation' with Reg, through paper-thin common walls. This time around, he got the full audio-visual experience.  
It turns out that our doorman Jervis had recognised Boko from the housewarming party - the two of them had enjoyed a lengthy conversation on the novels of Kurt Vonnegut, and he was happy to let Boko up. (Pleasant fellow, Jervis. Always has a cheery salutation for the residents, but a bit too trusting for a man ostensibly in charge of building security.)  
As Reg fled to the bathroom to promptly die of embarrassment, I quickly threw on a musty dressing gown and did what all good Englishmen do: alleviated the anguished atmos. with a cup of tea.

As the kettle boiled, I tersely commanded Boko to say his piece. Curled in on himself, staring at the kitchen tiles, he asked: 'is it true, Bertie?'  
'Is what true? The existence of climate change? The tragic state of our healthcare system? The Flying Spaghetti Monster? Speak, man!' My hospitality was not at its heartiest.  
'...did Angela really break up with Tuppy?'  
I sighed. 'Boko, she's plastered her newly single status across all her social media accounts. There were photos on Instagram of her burning Tuppy's tatty old 'Tomb-Raider' T-shirt. Is it really so hard to deduce the answer?'  
He nodded soberly, absorbing my confirmation with an air that I almost fancied monastic.  
'I see,' he said slowly, 'Just felt the need to hear the news in person. Good night, Bertie.' He excused himself from the kitchen, and my thoughts instantly turned to comforting the traumatised solicitor currently hiding in the (presumably cold) shower.

By the way, for any Drones who might be reading this, feel free to take the above episode as a parable: if Jervis lets you into the building, it doesn't mean you have  _carte blanche_  to do as you please (I shall be having a friendly word with him all the same). For Jove's sake, KNOCK before you enter my flat!

***

Another strange little exchange happened a few days later, when a throng of us were out at the hipster cafe for lunch. Angela held the table's attention, pontificating on the glee of a Tuppy-free existence. Flanked by Bobbie Wickham and Florence Craye, she was gathering steam on the subj. of the male inability to wash dishes and take hints. Being a good feminist, I tried hard to listen sympathetically, but I confess the plate of avocado toast and chips that sat before me ended up stealing my attention.

As I dug in, I noticed Boko drooping upon the table to my left, staring at Angela like a woebegone bulldog stuck in an animal shelter. I offered him some of my chips, and he reluctantly choked one down, sallow eyes still riveted to the girl.

It was not until that weekend that the puzzle was solved. I found myself idling about at home with nothing to do - Reg was stuck at work, the flat was clean, and dinnertime was but a dream of the distant future. I hopped onto my laptop to divert myself, and ended up re-watching the film adaption of Boko's best-selling novel: 'The Perks of the Fault in our Travelling Pants'. ('TPotFioTP' to its fandom - quite a little acronym, that. Rather amusing that they like to shorten it to 'TP'.)  
  
Chances are you've probably read or seen the thing at least once - for the distinguished millennial, it's a hard franchise to avoid. You'll know the heroine, then: the manic pixie dream whatsit who brings joy back into the disaffected protagonist's life before beautifully and tragically dying from a scorpion bite in the painted desert of Arizona. The character had always struck me as oddly familiar, and on this re-watch it finally hit me as to why. Her bold nature, her penchant for good-natured pranks, her passion for sci-fi and her general tomboyish charm: the manic pixie dream whatsit is based on my cousin Angela!

Boko and I go way back - all the way to kindergarten, as a matter of fact. His mother is matey with Aunt Dahlia, so we shared many a weekend in childhood, playing together at Brinkley Court. I can vividly recall the fond way Boko would trail around after Angela, offering to share his lukewarm Capri Suns with her and inviting her to play Batman with us (she always insisted on being The Joker). And now that I think on it, the day that Angela first agreed to a date with Tuppy during our first Summer home from Oxford, I caught Boko hurling rocks at a cupid statue in Aunt Dahlia's garden that bore a fair resemblance to the marvellous Mr Glossop.

Upon having this little epiphany, my heart naturally went out to Boko - I myself am no stranger to the sorrow of sheltering a love unexpressed. The way forward was clear: now that Angela was flying solo, this was the window of opportunity for the poor lovelorn Fittleworth to make his move. And considering the foul taste that Tuppy had left in her mouth, Boko would look like a corker of a prospect in comparison. Where the former was boorish and insensitive, Boko was gentle and cerebral. Just the sort of sweet, drippy lambkin to turn the head of a strong-willed girl. Of course, given that Boko's fashion sense ran toward the anorak-and-acrylic-vest aesthetic, he would be in dire need of a stylist. And this Wooster was just the dandy for the job.

***

I'm sure you'll find it unsurprising to learn that Boko is something of a timid bird, with a tendency to balk at confrontations. During our Smash Bros tournaments, he is always the first man down, reluctant to perform even a basic attack. Even arguments shown on reality television have him reaching for the chamomile tea. I decided that the best approach re: his courtship of Angela was to ease him into it, bit by bit, lest he turn tail and scuttle off into the safety of the Fulham undergrowth.

Plying him one morning with a jumbo chai latte, I expressed a desire to go clothes shopping. He tagged along, docile enough for me to lob fitted pastel blazers and floral print jeans at him. After a solid few hours of sifting through the racks of Oxford St's finest, we had amassed quite the stylish new wardrobe. In stark contrast to his usual drab cardigans and corduroy, Boko could now boast a truly distinguished look that would do any trendsetter proud. 

'Bertie, are you sure about the acid-washed denim?'  
'Absolutely, old thing. The eighties are the current trend! Now, see how that looks paired with the houndstooth varsity jacket.'  
I had dragged him back to the flat, perching myself on the sofa betwixt a forest of shopping bags. I toyed with piecing different garments together on Boko's loping frame, hoping to find the ideal ensemble that would catch Angela's eye. While the lass professes not to be the type impressed by gilded lilies, I figured that the right pairing of patterns and colours would at least help to boost the old boy's confidence when he finally went to bare his soul.  
  
'Can we stop this, Bertie? I appreciate the new clothes, but I'm getting a bit tired of playing your fashion mannequin.'  
Ah - perhaps his blood sugar was in need of elevation. Time for another latte.

At this moment, the sound of keys jangling at the front door alerted me to Reg's return home. He walked in, took one look at both self and the brightly-apparelled Boko, and without a stutter in his step, strode right back out again.  
I deflated a little at this, saddened that Reg would feel the need to vacate his own home thanks to a single unfortunate run-in with Boko. And I suppose the shopping haul of peppy menswear strewn about the place didn't exactly help. Resolving to talk it over with him later, I valiantly took it in stride and made for the espresso machine.

Once we had more caffeine in hand, Boko looked over his sartorial conquests and wept. Well, if he didn't weep, he at least let go of a heavy sigh.  
'Something the matter, old bean?'  
'How much do you think we dropped on these togs today? At least two-hundred quid, by my reckoning. I can't think what it's in aid of.'  
I perked up. The time to unveil the  _mot juste_  had arrived.  
'Boko, I'm going to set you up with Angela.'  
  
I should have seen the spit take coming - thank goodness he'd changed back into his old swamp-green jumper.  
'Over my dead body!' He shrieked, his features flaring out to the far corners of his face. 'She'd turn me down faster than a tripe canapé!'  
I tossed a flippant hand at this. 'Oh no, no, dear old thing. Angela adores you! Besides, I've considered all the variables, and concluded that the best approach is a subtle one. If we play our cards right, the maiden fair won't even know that she's being courted.'  
Boko crossed his arms. 'Subtle? YOU? Wooster, you just bought me a lime-green leopard-print muscle shirt!'  
'Scoff all you like, but you'll thank me when Angela is hanging off your arm and gazing at you with wide, adoring eyes.'  
My companion shook his head, a grin eking its way onto his face. 'You know, I'm actually curious to hear what well-meaning goose chase you've dreamed up.'  
  
I stuck my chin out and indulged him. 'Well. My cousin is a woman of agency and self-determination. Merely flinging you into her face and having you make some cliched love declaration will inspire naught but a haughty retort. Therefore, we need to strategically position you in her line of sight, cast in an appetising light, so that she'll choose you for herself. We'll all go out somewhere casual, to a place that hints at romance without blaring it. Some park dripping with springtime cherry blossoms, I think. That'd be a suitably ethereal backdrop. Anyway, I'll also invite Reg along, thus making the thing a double date without it actually _being_ a double date, if you understand. You'll offhandedly recite some poetry to the girl - brush up your Byron, start quoting your Keats. Seeing you beneath a spray of fragrant petals, all Romantic literature and stylish apparel, she won't be able to help herself. Place the mutton before the tigress, and nature will simply do its thing. If anything, _she'll_ be the one casting herself at your feet, offering up her tender heart for your delectation.'  
'Bertie,' Boko eventually responded, 'you really do live in a charmed little world, don't you?'

For someone who had earned a staggering amount of royalties and residuals from a self-published debut novel, Boko was surprisingly pessimistic. 'Oh, come now,' I barked. 'Where's your pluck, Fittleworth? Worst case scenario, she tires of the verse and asks after your pet fish! Anyway, don't you remember how you encouraged me to go after Reg? Look how that turned out!'  
Finally, he began to concede. 'You do have a point. After all, the two of you did seem deeply gratified the other night when-'  
'-I'll buy you lunch,' I offered promptly.  
'Fine. If nothing else, at least I'll get to rejoice in the splendour of mine own.'  
'Your literary prowess does you credit, old thing.'

***

I found my own beloved swain hiding in a booth at the Coach & Horses, hunched over his laptop.  
'Talk to me,' I entreated him.  
That noble brow of his looked pained. 'Acid-washed denim, Bertram?'  
'Alright. A tad garish, I grant you, but all in the name of getting Boko to come out of his shabby, under-dressed shell.'  
'I fear I can never look Mr Fittleworth in the face again,' Reg lamented.

His torment stuck my heart like a barbecue skewer. I well know how proud the chap can be. A poised and princely soul like Reg is unused to humbling encounters. I could only imagine how he was smarting from the sting of being observed  _in flagrante_ by a casual acquaintance. I, however, could win Olympic medals in public embarrassment.   
I clutched his hand. 'If there's one thing that awkward incidents like that teach you, it's how to let go and laugh at yourself.'  
His eyes flicked up from the PDF he was perusing to examine me.  
  
'Sure, at first you feel like crawling into a hole and waiting for the end. But the days pass, and you get on with things, and the opinions of others prove themselves to be nothing but sound and fury. I mean, what really happened that evening? Boko got a brief picture of something he'd been overhearing through the walls for months. Just further proof to a gentle soul that both of us are human. Beyond the initial unease, he really didn't think much of it. All he remarked on was how happy we looked. You have nothing to be ashamed of. Besides, I'm in the habit of locking the door now.'  
He softened, and raised my hand to press his lips against it.  
'Have dinner with me, you sublime creature,' he beckoned.  
  
His laptop was packed away and we ordered some pub grub.  
'I'm going to Regent's Park on Sunday with Boko and Angela. Do come with us, it will prove that your honour has not been sullied.'  
'You are trying to pair them up, aren't you? And you require my presence to prevent yourself from becoming a third wheel.'  
'Well, yes. But I'd like to think of it as a double date.'  
'As long as Mr Fittleworth is not dressed in acid-washed denim.'  
'Deal.'

***

Regent's Park was a veritable stereotype, steeped in blushing petals, glorious sunshine and crowds of visitors. Angela suggested stopping by a nearby sushi joint and staking out a picnic spot beneath the cherry blossom trees, as the Japanese do. We found a prime location by the boating lake, in between a group of German tourists and a family with three squirming toddlers.  
'Salmon nigiri, Boko?' Angela offered.  
He grimaced. 'No thank you. It reminds me too much of my Hadrian.'  
'Oh right, sorry. How is the little bugger, by the way?'

That seemed like a good enough start. I nudged Reg as I wolfed down a california roll.  
'I say, can I smell lilac?' I piped up. 'Didn't realise Regent's Park had lilac bushes. I thought it was more of a tulip and blossom place. Boko, how does that lilac poem go? "When lilacs last ta-ta tum-tee-tum"? You know the one.'  
My friend looked at me with the sort of surly confusion he usually reserved for chaps who say 'expresso' and 'incentivise'.  
'You know?... "A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song..." um, "tum-tee-tum, the hermit withdrawn..."?' I tried to urge him, but he wouldn't budge.  
'You told me to work on my Byron and Keats, not Walt bloody Whitman,' he countered.  
This stymied me for a moment, but I persisted. 'Oh... but there, you see, a hopeless romantic like you knows all the great-'  
'Alright, that's enough!' Angela threw down her chopsticks.

'I thought something was up when I saw the ridiculous way you've tarted up poor Boko here.' She gestured to the sapphire jacket and slim floral shirt I had selected for him. 'I've never once known him to favour jewel tones.'  
'But don't you think he looks handsome?' I attempted, feeling my stomach sink to my ankles.  
'Maybe so, but that doesn't mean you can launch your yenta tactics at me. I'm single again for the first time in years, and I am enjoying it immensely. I don't know if Mum put you up to this, or if it was just a whim of your own overactive imagination, but I'll have none of it. And dear Boko does not deserve to be trotted out like some escort.'

She stood to her full height, slinging her bag over her shoulder like an Amazon schlepping her quiver.  
'Boko darling, I may consider asking you out in a year or so, _under my own steam_.' She directed this last part at me. The next moment, she strode off, alone and quite pleased with herself.

I turned to the spurned admirer, who was utterly gobsmacked, unheeding of the errant sliver of cucumber hanging from the corner of his mouth.  
'Oh Boko... I am so sorry...'  
'Sorry? SORRY?' He exclaimed.  
I flinched back towards Reg.  
'Bertie... she called me darling! She agreed I look handsome! She might ask me out in a year or so!' The elation splashed across his dial seemed to be at odds with the paltry concession he described. 'Oh, crikey... how am I ever going to prepare for such an event? I'm shaking already! Look!' And he held up his trembling hands to show us.

'I would be unconcerned for the moment, Mr Fittleworth,' Reg advised. 'However, it may do you well to give Ms Travers some breathing space over the next few months, if you wish to win her favour. Supporting a person in their need for dignity and emotional stability is a cornerstone in building a strong relationship.' Here he passed a quick but meaningful look my way, and something inside me glowed warmly.  
'Right you are, Jeeves,' Boko replied. 'Thank you for today, you two are real pals!'

As he pranced off, I gave Reg a not-quite-smug look.  
'Well now. It seems your worries about losing face were all unwarranted.'  
'Yes, I admit it is difficult to uphold any concerns about my standing with Mr Fittleworth after such a display,' he affirmed.  
'On that note, let's polish off this sushi and head back to the flat. I'd rather like to cozy up to you on the sofa again...'  
Reg took a moment to consider. 'You know, my peppermint, our kitchen table is quite sturdy.'  
This little hint piqued my interest exceedingly, if you catch my meaning. 'Lead on, good man!'


	7. Chapter 7

**4TH JUNE**

There was some grand and ponderous fatherly icon - to be honest, I am unsure whether it was Atticus Finch or Bob Belcher - who posited that you can never truly know a chap until you nosh with his kinsmen. The way someone comports himself around his family tells you quite a lot, not only about his formative sproutling years, but also about his frailties. If you plop said chap down before the meat and veg among those whom he shares a gene pool with, you shall soon be granted with the what, why and wherefore of his limits. Not to mention the rawer of his nerves.  
Upon observing your findings, it is not uncommon to feel a pang of compash for your subject, nor to experience an impulse to wrap him up in a blanket and provide a steady stream of tea, liquor and general pampering.

I was given a chance to conduct just such a study a few weeks ago. I trotted merrily home after a shift at the piano bar (during which I played a hearty round of requests such as 'Stand By Me', 'Chapel of Love', 'Rapper's Delight' and other such royal wedding-ish pap). The spectacle that awaited me when I opened my front door gave me a feeling not dissimilar to a hostage negotiation.

'Bertie, at last!' Came the halloo of Scarlett, Reg's longstocking of a baby sister. 'Welcome home!'  
Reg was perched uneasily on the sofa, his gaze fixed straight ahead on the muted television. His graceful hand was clinging to the armrest like a narrow cliff-face, and he fixated on the screen as if he could will away the situation simply by examining the complexity of Viola Davis' pantsuit.

'What ho, Jeeveses all,' I said uneasily. Scarlett beamed at me with a glint of manic determination, and I had to check my impulse to flinch away. She was holding a phone to her ear, and I could just make out a low, lilting female voice on the line.  
'Yep, Mum, he's just home now. I'll put him on for you.' I accepted the phone, handling it like a displeased hedgehog.  
'Hullo?' I ventured.  
  
'Bertie, my dear, it is so good to finally hear your voice!' The elegant, accented salutation could only have come from the Jeeves family matriarch. 'This is Rani, Reg's mother. We are all so eager to meet the young man who has stolen our Reggie's heart! He has been hiding you away from us so cruelly. I have sent Scarlett over to extend an invitation to dinner at our place this Saturday. Do you know this is the fifth time I have asked him? It is as if he is ashamed of his own family! Do me a favour, and give him a good clip on the ear, would you? There's a dear.'  
An eavesdropping Scarlett perked up. 'On it, Mum,' she hollered, and with a jaunty bound over to the sofa she let my poor Reg have it.

'Excellent. We so look forward to seeing you, Bertie. And please tell Scarlett to pick up some milk on the way home. Not that full fat stuff, Daddy sneaks way too much of that at work!'  
'Did you get that?' I asked her, and she gave a crisp salute.  
'Take care, my dear. See you Saturday!' She ended perkily, and hung up.

As Scarlett snatched back the phone, Reg eyed her with the injury of a purebred cat who'd had all its most graceless pratfalls uploaded to Instagram.  
'Don't give me that, Reg. I happen to side with Mum. Why won't you let us meet your boyfriend?'  
'Two words, Scarlett: old photos.'  
She thumped him on the back. 'Oh come on. Bertie's not gonna get phased by something like that. You're a sympathetic bloke, aren't you Bertie?'  
'Of course!' I rallied round, landing a gentle, boyfriendish hand on the shoulder that Scarlett hadn't just tenderised. 'You're sorely mistaken, if you think that a bunch of zealous relatives bearing pictures of you as a lad going through some awkward phase is going to put me off. Don't you recall Aunt Dahlia screening those old family videos of me at the peak of my Britney Spears obsession?'  
'Yeah, Bertie's done all sorts of dumb, cringey stuff. I read his blog,' Scarlett helped.

'I suppose I am just putting off the inevitable,' Reg murmured glumly.  
'I want to know everything about you,' I insisted. 'Your family, your upbringing, even what you were like as a gawky adolescent. I am sure I will adore the cub just as much as I do the tiger.'  
I swear I could hear him purr just a little at these words.  
Scarlett chimed in once again. 'Yeah. And don't worry about Thomas or Dal, or even Granny Priya. Her evil eye only lasts for so long. Anyway, laters. I got skim milk to buy.' And the door slammed carelessly behind her.

'Granny who?' I asked Reg, just as my imagination began to supply menacing images to accompany the idea of her.  
'You'll find out soon enough, my sunbeam.'

***

As we journeyed out to the Jeeves homestead in Hanwell that weekend, my man's mood remained taut enough to slice through bone. I couldn't help but feel a little guilty - while I could easily understand the trepidation involved in introducing one's beau to one's brood (my official debuting of Reg at the Wooster Christmas party had involved an unpleasant _tête-à-tête_ with Aunt Agatha), I was just so damned curious about his clan. Thus far, I had only scant morsels of info on his immediate family. These little appetisers had left me craving more. A marvellous specimen like Reg would no doubt have been created by an equally marvellous lineage, and it was one of two blended cultures, to boot. I did my best to keep the crackling excitement to myself, but I suspect Reg caught a hint of a smile playing around the corner of my mouth, as his silence became that much stonier.

We approached a neatly-kept, semi-detached home, clad in red brick and festooned with a cheerful row of camellia bushes. Reg knocked on the smart, six-panelled front door as if it bore a sign reading 'Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.' I quickly gave his hand a squeeze as we heard movement within.  
The lady who opened said door had an aura of such grace and easy refinement about her that I swear it improved my posture and rouged my cheeks. I took in a noble profile, long-lashed eyes, full lips and a tall, lissom figure, accented by a smart tailored dress and neatly coiffed, dark grey hair. She was imbued with the kind of queenly, mature pulchritude that the jowly matrons of Aunt Dahlia's W.I.  chapter could only lament over.   
This, of course, was in sharp contrast to the sound of grunting male voices and a cricket match blaring from the telly inside.

'My darlings!' She cried, enveloping Reg and I in a gentle hug.  
As Reg leant his head on her shoulder, I noticed his tension from before beginning to ebb away just a little. 'Hello, Mum,' he said softly.  
'Bertie, dear, so lovely to meet you at last!' She clutched my hand. 'Come in, come in! I have just prepared some chai, and _Dadaa_ has made a batch of his pistachio burfi for starters.' She smoothly yet promptly veered us away from the clamour in the living room, making a beeline for the kitchen.  
I pulled out my best manners. 'Thank you, Mrs Jeeves, that is ever so kind.   
'Please do call me Rani, dear.' Her honeyed request had just the slightest tang of steel to it, so I quickly complied.  
'Right you are, Rani. May I ask if-'

My thoughts were scattered like marbles on hardwood as I was seized by a pair of bulky arms and squashed against a lofty, solid mass of white beard and checkered shirt.  
'My new _Potra! Adar karna!_ Oh, he is so cute, just like that new Spiderman, eh?' A hearty laugh boomed all around me, and I still had yet to grasp what had just happened.  
' _Dadaa_ , please put Bertram down,' Reg admonished casually.  
I was unhanded, and before me stood a large older fellow, bearing a smile that could have rendered the dark side of Pluto into a cozy toasted marshmallow. He sported a snowy beard, large rectangular glasses and a mustard-yellow turban. I was put in mind of a Punjabi Santa Claus.  
'Hello  _mere pria_ ,' he cooed, 'I am _Dadaa_ Balvinder, Reggie's granddad. I am so happy you have joined the family! Our Reggie needed a nice man to care for him so badly. He has always worked so hard and my heart ached for how lonely he was-'  
'Bertram, would like some burfi? It's _Dadaa's_ speciality.' Reg was holding out the dish of sweets with a 'For-the-love-of-god-PLEASE' quirk to his brow.

I obliged, fully understanding his chagrin. The little green slice was delicious, sweet and yielding and most definitely pistachio-esque, if that is the descriptor I want. 'Much obliged, _Dadaa_ , these are scrumptious!'

Without warning, Rani gave the crown of her son's head a good sharp smack.  
'This is the sweet angelic boy you've been hiding away from us! Why on earth were you keeping him a secret? I could have gone to my grave not knowing that my youngest son had found love with a decent gentleman! Who would dance at your wedding then? Mister Seppings!?'  
Ah, so that sergeant-major shtick she'd pulled on the phone hadn't just been a fluke. I shot Reg a sympathetic glance, but before Rani could lay into him again, a mob of noisy, hungry cricket fans stampeded into the kitchen, lead by none other than Scarlett.

'Bloody Australians, the umpires should not be letting them claim that many runs!'  
'Yeah, well, after that Steve Smith business, who knows what malarkey them Aussies are capable of... oh, 'ello!'  
It seems tallness is the overarching trend in the family. Reg's father stood at well over six foot, towering over his daughter like an oak tree over a rose bush. A ruddy, sturdy bloke with a disarming estuary accent, he gave me a guarded once-over before deeming me fit for interaction.  
He extended a positively ginormous hand, shaking my mitt like a tectonic tremor. 'How ya doin'. Edward Jeeves. You must be that Bertie we've been hearing so much about.'  
'The pleasure is all mine, I'm sure.' I winced inwardly at my own indelible bloody poshness.

'You, ah, alright with spice, Bertie?' he grilled. 'I got Rani to make some butter chicken, just in case.'  
I know he didn't mean it as an affront to my manhood, but really now. Did he fancy I was made from spun glass and white bread?  
'Oh no no, that's alright,' I responded, trying too hard to sound casual. 'Reg and I have prepared many a curry together. I'm quite the spice maven, don't you know.'  
He frowned a little at this, and my flaccid laugh died a clumsy death.

***

We were gradually herded around a large table in the dining room, where Rani and _Dadaa_ Balvinder served up a variety of steaming, mouthwatering dishes. I was raring to strap on the nosebag, but I restrained myself enough to exchange what-hos with the other family members joining us, most of whom had been watching the cricket:  
  
Chetna is Reg's older sister by about three years or so, and has been blessed with the same long, elegant lines as her brother and mother. She is married to Vikram (the bloke whose cousin Reg fished from the _shorba_ ). They are both dedicated Sikhs and have a young daughter named Siya, a rambunctious little thing that squirmed and squawked in her seat as her mother wiped errant Play-Doh from her hands.  
  
I noticed a certain jagged tension as Reg nodded at his older brother Thomas, who is a near carbon copy of their father. He shot a quick, unimpressed look my way as he sat down next to Edward, and his harried-looking wife Roma tempered it by offering me an apologetic simper. Their children, a tween boy named Dalpinder and a wee fairy named Kareena, were both too absorbed in their respective 3DS games to notice me much.

Granny Priya was much as I had imagined her, and I attempted a lukewarm smile before averting my gaze. One does not look long into the face of disapproving grandmothers.

Chetna quizzed me on my work and family, absorbing the term 'vlogger' without looking too disappointed. I sensed a slight protectiveness over Reg from the lady, and supposed I could expect the 'break-his-heart-and-I'll-break-your-legs' spiel from her sometime soon. She must have deemed me acceptable, though - she offered me the dish of palak paneer and heaped a jumbo serving onto my plate, declaring it her own favourite.  
  
'We must come to this piano bar of yours, Bertie,' _Dadaa_ Balvinder exclaimed. 'I should so love to hear you sing!'  
'Bertram is a masterful pianist and possesses a beautiful lyric tenor,' Reg boasted, only exacerbating the heat in my face.  
'Yeah, Bertie's great. I went with Reg to see him in "Legally Blonde",' Scarlett remarked through a mouthful of saag.  
Edward fixed me with an odd grin. 'Musical theatre, eh?'  
'Oh, indeed,' I affirmed. 'I've always loved treading the boards. Got plenty of chums who do it as a dedicated profession, too.'  
'And you played the leading man, then? Got a kiss from the pretty thing playing the heroine?'  
I inhaled a shaky breath.  
'No, Dad,' Scarlett shot back with the impudence of all daughters correcting their culturally-challenged fathers. 'Bertie _was_  the pretty thing playing the heroine! He played the first ever drag Elle Woods! Look!'  
And here she got out her phone, flipping through the photos to show Edward exhibit A. The goggling of his eyes made him resemble one of Gussie Fink-Nottle's more exotic newts. 'Blimey,' he breathed.

From the other end of the table came a sudden, strident declaration in fast-fire Punjabi. All heads turned to Granny Priya, and she was glaring back at me.  
'Oh, uh... pardon me, what was that?'  
Uneasy shifting rolled across the table, and Reg and Scarlett stared down at their plates.  
'Uh... well-'  _Dadaa_  Balvinder began.  
Thomas interrupted him in a flat, laconic voice: 'Granny Priya says there is already foreign blood tainting her legacy, and she doesn't want any unnatural perverts in the family.'

One could hear the distant rumbling of traffic on the Broadway, as well as the insistent pings from Dalpinder's game of 'Animal Crossing'.  
Roma stared daggers into an unrepentant Thomas, until Rani picked up the slack. 'More roti, anyone?'

'Scarlett, darling, how is your roller derby team doing?' Chetna queried.  
'Not bad. We won against the Reading Ravens last month, and practice is going well. But there's always this annoying little bloke that shows up to our practice sessions and keeps asking me to marry him. He's a right pest.'  
'A guy? Taking an interest in Scarlett? Fake,' taunted Dalpinder, in much the same tone as his boorish father. The little creep got a balled-up, soiled napkin in the face for his cheek. It made me think that perhaps Scarlett should try out for a cricket team, too.  
'It's true! No matter what I do to shake him off, he just keeps on harassing me. Showed up with a bouquet of daisies last Wednesday. He's driving me round the bend!'

Conversation turned to various tactics that Scarlett might use to get this cad to sod off, and then onto the requisite benign fare of movies, sports, and the toothsome banquet before us. Come to think of it, the much dreaded photos from adolescence were never whipped out, so at least Reg was spared that particular tribulation.

As the meal wound down and more chai was served, I excused myself to the bathroom, allowing myself a splash of cold water to the dial and a few deep, even breaths.  
It's really an awful sitch to be in, to have branches of your family tree disinclined to let the pride flag wave from its boughs. I count myself as singularly lucky, having but one homophobic kinswoman to deal with. It rattled me to think that my Reg had grown up with that sort of rhetoric being spewed his way by a whole collective of relations. And it's not so much their political stance that wears at you, but the day-to-day reality of having to look across the breakfast table to meet a spiteful gaze that deems you dirty and inferior. I couldn't help but wonder if there were any more such relatives, who had refused to show up for dinner in protest of Reg's gay lover?

A new wave of disquiet surged through the Wooster corpus as I encountered Edward on the landing. I made to politely excuse myself, but he caught my arm with his enormous hand, his touch surprisingly gentle.  
'You okay, Bertie?'  
I nodded conscientiously. 'What? Oh, yes, rather.'  
Edward shook his head sadly. 'No you're not. Granny Priya was bang out of line sayin' all that dreadful stuff. I'm really sorry you had to hear that.'  
I shrugged. 'I've an aunt who's much the same way, you know.'  
Edward barked out a laugh. 'There's one in every family, eh?'  
  
I felt myself loosening, reassured by the contrite warmth on the old boy's mug. 'She hit the ceiling when I proposed to Reg's mum. Threatened to lock her up in her bedroom until she could find a rich Punjabi boy to marry her off to. Took old Balvinder ages to talk her round. 'Course, she started to soften a bit when the kids were born.' He paused here, looking down at his size 13 loafers. 'You know, if it weren't for experiencing the prejudice that I did, from both white and Punjabi fellas, I don't think I would have been as sympathetic to my boy when he told us he was gay. Love really does change people for the better.'  
I smiled a hopeful smile. 'So you're okay with...' I made a vague gesture with my hands.  
'Oh, yeah, 'course I am. I may not understand completely, but I do think our society's heading in the right direction on that front. Love is love and all. It's just... well, you clever young people have such sophisticated ideas about gender and that. You know Scarlett loves them female impersonators on the telly? Knocks me for six, that does. Please do forgive an old geezer if he has trouble keeping up.'  
I chuckled, suddenly imagining Scarlett thrashing about to 'Supermodel (of the world)'.  
'Reg looks at you like you hung the moon, he does. I'm glad to invite you into our family. But...' Edward's brows quickly drew together.  
'If I break his heart, you'll break my legs?' I offered.  
'Got it in one!' He smirked, and thumped a friendly hand on my back.

***

The very first thing I did once we arrived home was to draw a generous, warming bath, and plop Reg down in it with self entwined. I set to work massaging all the mean little knots of tension out of his beautiful back, deftly avoiding the areas where Scarlett had chummily thumped him. But even given this delightful activity, I couldn't help but let my mind wander.  
'Is everything alright, my harlequin?' Reg asked. 'Did my father give you any further grief?'  
'Edward? Oh no, he was most sporting. Apologised for your granny and welcomed me to the family. I was actually thinking about Scarlett.'  
'How so?'  
'Well... this pesky admirer of hers. It really is unchivalrous of him to keep badgering her like that. And bringing her daisies! As if such an empty gesture could make up for the cheek of it.'  
'I agree it is a conundrum. My sister is a strong-minded young lady, and has never been shy about pursuing or rebuffing the attentions of numerous young gentlemen and women. I cannot yet fathom what is making it so difficult to drive this one away.'

It was but one moment later, ensconced snugly among lemongrass and thyme scented bubbles, that the old divine inspiration flew down and tapped my grey matter.  
'Eureka! I mean, Bingo!' I cried.  
'Bertram?' Reg turned to look at me with a minuscule lift of his brow.  
'Bingo Little! If ever existed a reliable siphon for romantic attention, well, he's our ticket. What say we visit Scarlett at her next roller derby practice session with Bingo in tow? At some point or another, old daisy-bouquet is bound to show his face. Inevitably, our old swain will clap his rose-tinted peepers on this fellow and give him a taste of his own medicine - that is to say, unwanted affection. Then he'll be too busy trying to fend Bingo off to give another thought to pursuing Scarlett. In fact, the whole thing may just put him off the tender pash for a good long time.'  
  
Reg cleared his throat like a caribou mangling a sheaf of arctic tundra.  
'I could not suggest it, darling. There are a great number of unreliable variables which may render the plan ineffective.'  
'Oh, pish. It's a simple formula of turning the predator into prey. Anyway, I have been settled into the Jeeves tribe now. It is my duty to protect your baby sister from all the unscrupulous, daisy-wielding scoundrels of the world. We'll pack some sandwiches and a thermos and make an evening of it.'  
  
Seeming to have reached his quota of familial pressure for the day, Reg quickly dropped the subject.  
'As you wish,' he sighed. 'Now, if you would kindly press your hand a little to the left?... Oh, that is glorious.'

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Punjabi (once again, any native speakers are welcome to clock me!)
> 
> Dadaa - Maternal Grandfather  
> Potra - Maternal Grandson  
> Adar karna - Welcome  
> Mere pria - My dear
> 
> Also, the Jeeves kids each have an English name and a Punjabi name, given their mixed heritage. Chetna chooses to go by her Punjabi named due to her Sikh faith. They are as follows:  
> Thomas Dharam  
> Chetna Caroline  
> Reginald Mandeep  
> Scarlett Balvinder


	8. Chapter 8

**23RD JUNE**

I don't know if you've ever had the fortune to attend a roller derby match. If it is a pleasure you've yet to embark on, I would suggest wearing light, loose clothing and packing some of those pastilles purported to soothe anxiety.  
  
The rules are fairly simple - the lass in the starred helmet has to overtake as many lasses on the opposing team as possible, and the other lasses must assist their own starred lass while blocking the opposing starred lass. One of these blocking lasses has a striped helmet and is in charge of strategy - in some situations, she can also fill in for the starred lass. Crystal clear, no?

In practice, the effect of placing ten brawny young women on wheels with an agenda to bump and knock each other about as much as possible is rather frightening. It produces the kind of lusty brawling that would make the most meaty-necked rugby players come over all wobbly-kneed, in need of smelling salts and a plush _chaise-lounge_. I found myself burying my face in Reg's lapels for the worst of it - and this was only a training session. The booming commands of Honoria Glossop, their illustrious captain, pulsed through the cavernous hall without mercy for sensitive eardrums. I swear the girl missed her calling in guiding freighters around foggy harbours.

We had moseyed along to Battersea Sports Centre to see the district's favourite daughters, the Bolts, practice their maneuvers. I had managed to rope Bingo Little into joining us, after agreeing to the caveat of stopping by McDonald's first. Frankly, I was surprised he was able to stomach all those refined carbs in the face of the carnage down on the track. At least he gifted me the Happy Meal toy.  
I gingerly sipped on my soda water as we made conversation. Needs must, I had a duty to fulfill re: diverting the attention of Scarlett's bouquet-happy suitor.

'Awfully electrifying environment, this,' I told him. 'gets up the heart-rate, wouldn't you say?'  
Bingo made an enthused noise of assent from behind a mouthful of cheeseburger.  
'Just the kind of excitement that can inspire one to be bold,' I continued. 'One could likely be lucky in the romance department, were they to run into some cutie or another.'  
He swallowed his mouthful, turning to me to grimace. You would think that he'd just eaten a can of fermented herring.  
'Don't talk to me about romance, Bertie,' he muttered. 'The whole business is a frivolous waste of resources!'

I shared a Look with Reg, and Reg shared the Look with me right back. This was Bingo 'I have a huge tab with Interflora' Little, Eros-in-a-faded-Evanescence-t-shirt, expressing disdain for that most lusciously gawpy form of affection? Had the bally sun fallen from the heavens!?  
Coaxing my eyebrows back down from my hairline, I affected an unaffected air. 'I must say I'm a tad surprised, old chap. Why such a change of heart?'  
He sighed around a pensive chip. 'Well... I suppose it started last month, when I was wooing that buxom redhead who works at the Hugo Boss store on Regent St. She politely refused the box of Thorntons I'd bought for her, claiming she was on keto or something. So I sat me down on a bench in Golden Square, digging into the choccies myself and marinating in self-pity. I got about halfway through the box before I started to feel sick - they were the ones with the fruity fillings, absurdly sweet - and that's when I realised... I didn't want it anymore!'  
I fixed him with a baffled stare. 'Wait a minute... you went to Hugo Boss? Voluntarily?'  
He huffed, and a crumb of burger bun jettisoned its way off into the bleachers. 'You're missing the point, Bertie. The cloying sugariness, the heavy, sickened feeling in the gut, the repenting at leisure... courtship is a confection that I have finally ODed on!'

It took a moment to absorb this news. I was unsure whether this boded good or ill. It could be a sign of personal growth, but then again, I couldn't exactly picture a soul like Bingo Little subsisting on bitterness and games of solitaire for the rest of his days.  
Not to mention my newly dashed chances of utilising Bingo as a trusty romantic decoy. But I am not one to be disheartened - maybe the best remedy for this little quandary would be hair of the dog. Once Scarlett's pestilent fan made his appearance, perhaps Bingo's amorous energies would take a fortunate upswing.  
'Chin up, Bingo,' I urged, 'you never know what lurks around the corner. Some grand source of joy may be moments away from showering gold into your crumb-laden lap!'

Just as I finished this rally, Oswald, Honoria's spotty little gnome of a baby brother, sauntered up to us and dropped his skinny frame down next to Bingo. Not exactly the golden downpour that one could hope for, to be sure. His eyes never roved from his phone.  
'Alright, arsebag?' He greeted Bingo.  
'Evening, you manky little polyp,' Bingo returned.  
'Here to cheer on your big sister then, Oswald?' I asked him.  
'Go and snog a urinal, Wooster.'  
'Right ho then.'

It should be no surprise that Oswald and Bingo are well-acquainted, and not exactly the dearest of pals. During an unfortunate period when Bingo fancied himself in love with Honoria, he took a job as Oswald's summer tutor to impress her (never mind that fact that a) Honoria was already head-over-rollerskates in love with Florence by this time; and b) she held the same amount of affection for Bingo as a she-wolf holds for a flea infestation). Bingo persisted in torturing the poor lad with flash cards on Latin and the Jacobite Rebellion until he noticed Daphne Braithwaite (Honoria's perky school chum who was, at this moment, ramming a luckless brunette into the floorboards with her hips), and the spell was broken. Oswald apparently did manage to scrape a pass in history during the following semester, so there's that.

The rumble down below began to abate, and the girls scattered to grab water bottles and gym towels. Reg waved to Scarlett, and she cheerily bounded up the bleachers towards us to mingle. However, when her eyes lighted upon Oswald, a surge of revulsion jerked its way through her so forcefully that she almost slipped on her skates. Meanwhile, Oswald miraculously tore his eyes from his phone, his pupils dilating like two little butter pats spreading across a frypan.  
'Evening Scarlett,' he simpered, 'you look beautiful tonight.'  
'I meant what I said about the restraining order,' she dismissed, brushing a sweaty lock of frizzy hair from her forehead.  
'But I brought you chocolates!' He produced a box of the very same fruity Thorntons from his backpack.  
'Whatever, I'm a Cadbury's girl.' She flicked her ponytail and turned to Reg. 'I told you he was a stubborn little pest.'

Well. So much for tempting Bingo to court this admirer. I may as well have set him up with a wet stoat. And to be honest, I suddenly felt much less concerned for Scarlett's welfare - while Oswald almost matched her in height,  the girl could most likely reduce him to a state where he'd be jumping at shadows for months.  
'You see?' Bingo interjected, indicating the the sulking Oswald. 'Who needs grief like that?'  
  
'If I may ask, Mr Little,' said Reg, who had been silently observing the drama this entire time, no doubt analysing and cataloguing the data in that marvelous brain of his. 'How have you been filling your time since you embarked on this renunciation?'  
'I'm glad you asked. During our brief... association last year, I have been keenly aware that my gaps in cultural knowledge are bloody well gaping. It does not do to have my awareness of the arts begin and end with Simon Cowell. And the snippets of Wordsworth I remember from school hardly count. So, I have been expanding my mind, delving into the literary world - aspiring to be a man of intellect.' He gave a small, haughty toss of his head.  
Reg's brow gave a brief twitch of interest, and I took pains to repress the low churn of jealously that arose in my gut. 'Indeed,' Reg replied. 'What have you been reading?'  
'Well, I started out with the first five 'Anita Blake' volumes, and I'm waiting for the next lot to arrive from Amazon. I also read 'Fangland', the 'Vampire Academy' series and 'The Silver Kiss'. Oh, and 'Dusklight' too, of course. I'm trying to gear myself up to start Anne Rice's novels, I hear they're rather a heavy read.'  
I could see the horror, for lack of a better word, slowly settle in on Reg's face. I don't want to say I was reassured by this, but... well, I was.

'Ooh!' Scarlett cried, 'I strongly suggest you dive into some of Stephen King's stuff! He's got this great one called 'Salem's Lot', and there's also the classics like 'Dracula' and and 'Carmilla', of course. They blow that 'Dusklight' pap out of the water.'  
Oswald gurned with all the disgust that a pre-teen male can physically muster. 'Dusklight'? Gross. Don't tell me you're gonna read that 'Fifty Shades of Factory Girl', too?'  
Bingo sniffed scornfully. 'I wouldn't use that for toilet paper. Some ridiculous woman stealing iconic literary characters and exploiting them in a tawdry, poorly-written romance story? Spare me.' The old fruit did have some standards, then.  
It appeared that Oswald and his former tutor had suddenly found something to bond over. 'I hear that that R. M. Banks girl has a secret dungeon full of-'  
'OSWALD!'

The rest of my soda water went splashing across the bleachers in a shimmering arc, as I flinched in my seat and ended up splayed halfway across both Reg and the greasy remnants of Bingo's dinner. Honoria loomed over her brother, hands squarely on her muscular hips.  
'What did I tell you about harrassing poor Scarlett!?'  
'Can I get a lift home?' He ventured.  
'How did you get here?'  
'Took the bus.'  
'I should make you travel in the boot of the car!'  
'Actually, Honoria,' Scarlett piped up, 'any chance I could get a lift to Paddington Station, if you're heading that way?'

Honoria laid her eyes on Scarlett with a blooming warmth, one that left me a little uneasy. 'What say I drop Oswald home, and then we'll take a road trip out to Hanwell? We can stop off for a cheeky Gregg's on the way if you like. And I'll make sure Oswald behaves himself.' A brief jab of a glare was fired at the little scrub.  
Scarlett returned the warm look, simpering as if Honoria held the sun itself upon her mighty shoulders. 'That is music to my ears!'  
The two girls left arm in arm, chatting merrily about unfair penalties, blocking strategies and something called 'passing the panty'. Oswald trailed along behind them, thoroughly cowed, with eyes back on his phone.

***

Soon after this, Reg and I were ankling along York Road, making for the bus stop, when we ran into an all-too familiar specimen. Florence Craye was crossing her arms grumpily outside an elegant little cocktail bar. When she recognised us, her dour expression opened up to one of manic inquest.  
  
'Bertie! Jeeves! Thank God,' she exclaimed, 'can either of you tell me where in the sodding sod Honoria has gotten to? She agreed to meet me after practice for dinner!'  
The wrath of a Craye is not something I would wish upon my bitterest enemies. I have been told I wear my emotions right on my face, so I tried to keep the map as blank as possible while remembering to breathe.  
  
'I am sorry to say there was an incident at the sports centre this evening, Lady Florence. Ms Glossop's brother Oswald donned a pair of skates without a helmet, and consequently injured himself. Ms Glossop has rushed him home - the boy is shaken, but not seriously injured. I suspect she has been too busy to answer any calls or texts.'  
Florence's ire gave way to distress. Florence has a younger brother of her own, the ever-tiresome Edwin, so this would have hit jolly close to the old sanctum. 'Oh, how dreadful! I shall head over to the Glossops' this minute!'  
'I could not advise it, Lady Florence. In the care of Ms Glossop and Sir Roderick, the child will be well tended. I suspect the family will be greatly preoccupied with his care tonight. It may be best to allow your girlfriend to focus attention on her brother's welfare, and then get a good night's sleep.'

Brilliant, brilliant Reg. Florence looked a little crestfallen, but danced to his tune perfectly. 'I suppose you're right, Jeeves. Best to leave them to it, they're a rather alpha-type bunch. Especially at times of crisis.' She threw up her arms. 'I don't suppose you two want the reservation?'

I felt rather bad for poor Florence, trudging glumly home to a dinner-for-one, while Reg and I supped on buttery sirloin. I made a mental note to purchase a large heap of pastries from her favourite vegan bakery for our next post-yoga pig-out session.  
I waited until we were a few spoonfuls into dessert, and finally announced: 'We need to set up Scarlett with Bingo.'

Reg's brows did this sort of drawing-in-while-lowering-about-one-third-of-an-inch thingie. By which I mean he was extremely unimpressed with this idea.  
'We do not, Bertram. I can understand what avenues of thought may draw you to that resolution, but-'  
'Do hear me out, Reg. I went to great pains last year in mending Florence and Honoria's relationship. Those girls are perfectly suited for each other, and improve each other by miles. If Honoria gets sweet on Scarlett, I don't want to be around while a jilted Florence is breathing fire and carrying off hapless goats.'  
'I don't disagree. However, Mr Little is a frivolous man, and far beneath the caliber of my sister. She does not deserve to be foisted off on someone so feeble-minded.'  
'Oh pish, Reg. A fleeting romance with Bingo Little is practically a rite of passage in our group. I've done it, you've done it, even Aunt Dahlia was once the unfortunate recipient of his affection, after he sampled her famous banoffee pie. Anyway,' I added, with a smidgen of spite, 'you called him 'not unattractive' last year.'

He leant back in his chair, examining me with flinty eyes.  
'So it is also your intention to divert Mr Little away from _me_. Do you not think that if I were truly keen on him, I would not be deterred by such a flimsy scheme?'  
I reeled severely at this - I had never experienced Reg cutting me quite so deeply before. 'Do you mean to imply you _are_ keen on Bingo, then?' I challenged.  
'Of course not. And I resent that you would suspect me of such a thing. I also resent the reckless way you suggest manipulating my sister, as if her own feelings did not matter.'  
'But you've got it all wrong!' I declared loudly. Suddenly, I became aware of the other diners that were ogling our little tiff, eyes wide and forks frozen halfway to their gobs.

Remembering myself, I took a breath and tried to extend the olive branch. 'I don't intend to see the dear girl hurt. If I thought there was a chance of that, I wouldn't have suggested it. Scarlett's made of stern stuff, what? Anyway, you said yourself that she knows her own mind. She'll either take to Bingo or she won't, just like with Angela and Boko. It would just be nice to perhaps get the two acquainted - not to mention remind the girl that there are plenty of desirable young things out there - ones who are actually single! You really think she wouldn't be in a _more_ dire sitch if she stole Honoria away from Florence? The girl who once reduced an english teacher to tears for a single dangling participle?'

Reg examined me in silence, before rattling out a tired sigh.  
'Whatever farce you dream up, I shall immediately call a halt to it if Scarlett's reputation or feelings are remotely in danger of hurt.'  
'Fine! I am certain that such a precaution won't be necessary.'  
Remaining stern, he scraped back his chair. 'I'm going home, I've suddenly lost my appetite.' He had the nerve to stick me with the bill, the cad.

We'd not fought like this before. That night, as I struggled to get comfy on Bingo's lumpy sofa, I made repeated attempts at untangling the chaotic flowchart in my head. There had to be some carefully calibrated set-up that resulted in all parties happily squared off with their respective loves - including Reg and myself.


	9. Chapter 9

**10TH JULY**

I'll start off this entry by addressing the concerns of some of my readers: no, Reg and I are not on the outs, nor fighting for custody over the telly and the Leyendecker prints.

Well... not exactly.  
  
The evening following our clash, I slunk home and whipped up a large batch of spag bol. Upon his arrival on the doorstep, he swept me into his arms for a lingering make-up snog.

That is not to say there wasn't still a current of tension buzzing around us. A parley re: Scarlett's romantic interests was urgently needed, so I sat him down before the steaming carbs to iron things out. I'd spent most of the day fused to Bingo's sofa, mulling over my pitch, and was feeling rather puffed at my own ingenuity.  
  
'You emphasised the need for your sister's aplomb to remain unprickled,' I began, twirling pasta around my fork. 'So, the thought came to me that dear Scarlett should not be a player in the main action, but a spectator. And do you know how I shall fulfill this proviso, Reg?'  
'Enlighten me, my popinjay.' While the love-light had begun to glimmer in his eyes again, it was joined by a fair amount of bemusement.  
'I'm going to have Bingo rescue young Oswald!'  
Reg responded with silence, and a rather sharp upswoop of the noble brow.  
  
'Do hear me out, dear heart. We know that the Bolts enjoy frequenting Battersea Park for outdoor maneuvers, yes? If we can arrange for Oswald to teeter at the edge of the boating lake - I hear there is a rather fruitful Pokémon Go gym in the area - then it would be the work of a moment for some swift hand to dump him in the water. The girls shall look on in maternal horror as the scamp flails helplessly about. When all seems lost, in shall sweep Bingo to dredge him up! Scarlett's a passionate sort, she's bound to have a weakness for feats of chivalry such as this. Bingo, in his graciousness, issues a _de rien._  Your poor besotted sister won't be able to help but lose her heart, dream of his kiss, and like every single one of his Instagram posts. Oswald sticks his damned phone in a bag of rice, and everyone ends the encounter positively boomps-a-daisy!'

I eagerly awaited Reg's ovation. It was sadly not forthcoming.  
He set his plate aside, and with a sigh, took my hands in his.  
'You are a generous soul, Bertram,' he affirmed, and I felt my gut begin to sink down to my knees. 'Due to my great love for you, I feel it imperative to offer you my honesty. In no possible way can I imagine such a convoluted strategy ending in anything but chaos. Even if you do manage to herd both Mr Little and Mr Glossop into the right positions at the right time, the likelihood of your desired outcome seems highly doubtful. In order to avoid the ire of both individuals, I beseech you, do not employ this scheme.'

An ugly flare of anger rushed through me. I would not be deemed just a pretty face. Ripping my hands out of his, I fixed him with my steeliest of steely glares.  
'You do realise that you aren't actually my keeper? Going into this relationship, I had no intention of it becoming an extended game of 'Reggie May I'!'  
'You asked my opinion,' he replied waspishly.  
'That I did! What I did _not_ ask for was some haughty verdict deeming me a complete idiot, and my ideas worthless dreck!'  
I am ashamed to say that the argument only got more savage from there. I am not proud of it, but in my defense, Reg had once again cruelly struck at all of my most sensitive nerves.

The painstaking efforts I make on behalf of my friends to ensure their happiness are some of the greatest feats of my life. What is a man but the sum of all his kindnesses? To have these intentions so coldly dismissed as naught but foolishness was not appreciated.

Ultimately, barbs were thrust, egos were thoroughly mangled, and Jervis sheepishly delivered a complaint from the upstairs neighbours. This time, it was Reg sleeping on the sofa.  
We exchanged a lukewarm apology the next morning as he oiled out the door, and I was left with a redoubled desire to put my plan into perfectly executed action.

***

I like to think I am a reasonable man. A man who is able to exercise a modicum of modesty when the occasion calls for it. It may be that I possess an iron will, but let it also be known that I have learned to bend when bending is  _de rigueur_.   
With that in mind, I am willing to confess that my stratagem could perhaps have done with a little more groundwork.

All the same, in any situation, a good strategist can only account for a slim portion of conditions being met. For example, I would staunchly argue that Wellington's victory at Waterloo was due to good weather, the fine health of his troops, and a fortunate influx of Prussians, just as much as it was thanks to his tactical know-how.  
There was one factor, however, that old Wellington never had to contend with: the tawdry novels of R. M. bloody Banks!

Picture, if you will, a clement summer's afternoon at Battersea Park - cotton wool clouds, the whoops of carefree youths at play, all that sort of pastoral rubbish.  
Among said scenery, a huddle of boisterous girls on roller skates pealed out smarmy giggles, as they watched their masterful captain haul her sopping wet brother towards the loo.  
'Getorff!' Oswald slurred, as an errant sheaf of pond-weed was brushed from his slight shoulders.  
'This is why I always carry a change of clothes for you, you little numpty.' Honoria's reproach was barked out with a strain of sisterly protectiveness.

I could only take so much of this cringy spectacle. My blood was bubbling as I went to find where the devil Bingo - Oswald's presupposed 'rescuer' - had gotten to. After a few minutes of searching, I espied him slouched on a bench on the carriage drive, his eyes glued to the pages of 'Fifty Shades of Factory Girl'.  
As I stomped up to the great lout, I threw him an exasperated gesture of raised hands and hackles.  
'What happened!?' I demanded.  
'Mabel has just stood up to the tempestuous Mr. Gunmetal, tossing her copper curls and demanding a pay rise for the girls in the upholstery shop!'

I was just about ready to toss that blasted book of his into the shrubbery, when a familiar scene rambled its way along the drive: Honoria and Scarlett, arm in arm, sharing effervescent bants and cheery gibes. A damp and cowed Oswald shuffled behind them like a lost duckling.

Have you ever been charged with the care of a bouncy lapdog, one who is the consummate treasure of its mistress' heart? Have you ever taken said fluff-bundle to a popular dog park, only to have the little runt bound up to the meatiest looking bull-mastiff in the place, spoiling for a rumble? That precise feeling of dense, nauseous dread had currently taken hold of my vital systems. It seemed I could do naught to prevent Honoria and Scarlett from hurtling towards each other. The cataclysm that would be Florence's reaction hung over me grimly. No doubt my proximity to the two ladies and my knowledge of their coquettish little exchanges would single me out as the common factor.

I glumly considered that Reg's recent frigidity towards me may be for the best, given the likelihood of my upcoming dismemberment.

Plodding home, with the solid weight of my shame roosting on my shoulders, I thought longingly of brandy.

***

When I arrived, I encountered Reg and his trusty hauteur, nestling their way into a ponderous book by some chap called Kierkegaard.  
'Well, I'm pleased to tell you that your prediction was a resounding success,' I muttered at him.  
'I beg your pardon?'  
'The Oswald-dunking scheme, Reg. It turned out a bloody shambles. Scarlett remains infatuated with Honoria, Bingo is now infatuated with some blasted heroine from a bad novel, and this Wooster is a world-class imbecile. I give you leave to bask in my failure.' I plonked my limp frame down on the sofa.

Reg put aside his book, and considered me somberly.  
'I take no pleasure in your misfortune, Bertram, and I am sorry if I gave that impression. While today may have been regrettable, I do not scorn your inventiveness. However, I would humbly suggest that this crusade to pair Mr Little with Scarlett may not be worth your efforts.'  
I let go of a huff, flopping my head down onto the armrest. 'But then what am I to do? If Honoria gives Florence the bum's rush, then-'

My phone blasted out Beyoncé's 'Run the World', and I answered dutifully.  
'Aunt Dahlia, old crumpet.'  
'Bertie, you surprising little pimple! I wouldn't have taken you for a roller derby fan!'  
'Oh... well, I suppose it has a certain morbid fascination,' I confessed.  
'Angela's chum Honoria told me you've been hanging out at her team's practice sessions. You know, I was quite the jammer in my day, back when the Hampstead Harpies were still a contender in the league. I went by the nickname Foxy Roxie Dart, don't you know!'  
'I can believe it, auntie.'  
'I thought it might be nice to organise a little get-together at my place with a few of the Battersea Bolts girls. You and Reg are more than welcome to come along. That zippy little blocker with the long hair is Reg's sister, isn't she?'  
'The divine Miss Scarlett, yes indeed.'  
'Marvellous. I'll text you the details. Oh, and if you're going to bring something, please don't saddle us with Thorntons. Those bloody things always just end up in the bin. There's a love. Well, toodle-pip!'

Oh, sweet auntly providence! This new stroke of fortune pumped a bit of vigour back into my tired form, and I could already feel the cogs in my brain start to pick up speed again.  
'Aunt Dahlia has invited us to a soiree with the Bolts at Brinkley Court, Reg.'  
His lips turned upwards. 'That will no doubt prove to be entertaining.'  
'Precisely! And during said revels, I am sure there will be some way to make Honoria stop doting on Scarlett and turn back to Florence!'  
  
I watched pure, distilled exasperation pull my man's elegant features taut. At this moment, his brow seemed to exclaim 'Wooster, why are you like this!?' Were he a less dignified man, he would probably have been shaking me by the shoulders,  
At length, he found his voice. 'Bertram... I implore you to let this go...'  
'Sorry, dearest. The Code of the Woosters forbids it. If there is still a chance that I can nudge our two valkyries back together, then I am honour-bound to follow through.'  
Reg clenched his teeth, breathed heavily through his nose, and centred himself. 'As you say, darling. If you'll excuse me for now, I am in need of a long shower.'

***

We moseyed out to Brinkley Court that weekend. Had I been more observant during the journey, I would have taken note of the leaden storm clouds hanging in the summer skies. I also would have better minded the peevishness simmering just beneath my boyfriend's graceful good manners; not to mention the fact that I had forgotten to scotchgard my new loafers.  
'Teal suede?' Reg queried with an imperious eyebrow.  
'Yes indeed. And jolly vibrant they are, too.' As it was, I would not heed his needling this night - I was a man on a mission.

Things were in full swing by the time we got there - the Bolts were mingling in the living room as Dahlia and Angela hovered amongst them as gracious hostesses.  
'Bertie, you reedy little twit!' Honoria greeted me with both this bellowed epithet and a felicitous whallop between my shoulder blades. 'Fancy you becoming our number one fan!'  
'How's things, dear old bean?' I choked out, my eyes watering fiercely.  
'Alright, I suppose, though I'm a bit miffed. Florence promised that she'd come along tonight, and she's terribly late. I wonder where she could have gotten to?'

Code Yellow: this was not good tidings. I resolved to stick by Honoria's side and deflect any possible flirtation between her and Scarlett.  
'Oh, dear old Florence,' I supplied. 'I'm sure she's eager to-'  
'There you are!'

As if invoked by the fates, Scarlett squeezed her way between two wiry girls in skater dresses, torpedoing towards us as she dragged Reg behind her. Honoria's face lit up when she saw her. I had to think quickly.  
'I say, is that the Cherry Poppin' Daddies playing just now? Why don't we bust out the old moves, eh Honoria? Remember when we did 'Anything Goes' at the Oxford Playhouse?'  
'Bertie, that was five years ago-'  
'I recall you made a corking Moonface.'  
I drew her out to an empty spot on the hardwood floor and broke into a rather flustered Charleston.  
Thank Jove, she went along with it - and she remembered most of the steps, to boot. We were only on the first track of the album, so hopefully I could stall her for a good while.

Halfway through a rather jaunty Fats Waller cover, I was spared - the girls began to mill at the front door, and into their midst swooped Florence. Her arms were cradling a hefty stack of cake boxes. 'I come bearing vegan pastries!' She announced proudly.  
I had to swiftly back myself into a safe corner: I don't mean to be offensive, but believe me when I tell you that the word 'pastries' hollered at a group of ladies results in a near-lethal stampede.

Somewhere towards the back of the stragglers, I found Reg.  
'Cover me,' I instructed, 'now's my chance to strike.'  
His lips thinned. 'For mercy's sake, not again. You aren't planning to place yourself in bodily danger, are you?'  
'Of course not, Reg! I'm just going to set off the smoke detector.'

It's like this: there was this doctor bloke that I met at Reg's office a few months back. As it happens, he has a rather popular blog of his own, perhaps you've read it? He records all of his husband's investigative work on it. Ripping stuff. Anyway, I had recently perused an entry of his where he'd written something about fire exposing one's priorities. As I pondered this thought, it occurred to me that such a crisis would be just the thing to draw Honoria back to Florence's side. Were life and limb at risk, who would she rescue: the ropey and capable Scarlett, or her cerebral and delicate old flame? (Pardon the pun.)

Mind you, I had no intention of _actually_ starting any fires; no Bertha Mason am I. A smouldering sheaf of notebook paper held up at the ceiling for a few seconds would engender the needed reaction from the party-goers. Sneaking into the empty kitchen, I swiped the safety matches from beside the burner, climbed atop the breakfast table, and set a scrap from my moleskine alight. _Et voila,_ the smoke detector issued forth its deafening peal.  
'Fire! Fire!' I squawked, as I rushed from the scene of the crime.  
  
I think my theatrics rather sealed the deal, as the entire party erupted into a frenzy. We bottlenecked at the door, and I stood well back as one of the finest roller derby teams in the UK began shoving and ramming each other aside during their escape. It was a small miracle that no bones were broken.

As I joined the throng on the front lawn, I couldn't help but feel that the whole fracas had fizzled out rather sadly. After the initial panic, I beheld the girls all standing around, slowly becoming puzzled by the dearth of scorching infernos. As they began querying to each other, Reg approached me.  
'Am I to guess that your aim was to impel Ms Glossop to rescue Lady Florence from supposed danger?'  
I nodded uneasily.  
'Unfortunately, it appears the rescue did not occur.' He pointed to Honoria, who was crossing her arms and mumbling to Angela. Meanwhile, Florence was fretting at the other side of the garden, hand clutched to her chest as she focused furiously on deep breathing.

Our attention was then caught by the blaring declaration of Aunt Dahlia: 'The bloody door's locked!'  
A wave of tuts and grumbles resounded.  
'Who was the genius that dragged us all out here, then?' Demanded a short, testy lass with rainbow cornrows.  
'Bertie was the one who thought there was a fire,' Scarlett said helpfully.

I suddenly found myself staring down the collective angry glare of at least two dozen women. Not something I would recommend for a healthy nervous system.  
'Typical,' Angela groaned. 'I'll bet you he saw Mum's humidifier going and freaked out.'  
'Did anyone grab their phone or their keys on the way out?' My Aunt bellowed, and pockets were duly checked. Sadly, it seemed that each and every one of us was sans key-rings and digital devices. Fire exposes our priorities, my foot.  
'BERTRAM WOOSTER, YOU BLISTERING OSTROGOTH!'

The girls parted as she marched across the lawn and yanked the collar of my shirt.  
'God help me, I am NOT going to spend the rest of the night out here getting damp. Your Uncle Tom is currently over at a chum's house in Teddington, watching a Hammer Horror marathon. You will haul your pathetic hide over there as fast as your spindly legs can carry you, and return with the bloody keys! You shall then take yourself straight home, where I shan't have to lay my eyes on you!!'  
I dared to open my mouth. 'May I ask if there's a bicycle I can use?'  
Angela appeared at my side, toting a magnificent stink-eye, along with a rickety pink razor scooter. 'It's been sitting in the potting shed since 2011,' she said, and meant it to sting.

Just when I thought my heart couldn't grow any heavier, a roll of thunder roared overhead.  
While the girls rushed beneath the eaves, my loving Auntie smacked me on the Honoria-dealt bruise between my shoulder blades. 'Godspeed, Felicia,' she snarled.

 ***

Teddington is about one-and-a-half-ish miles away from Brinkley Court, as the winged whatsit flies. But as I trust you can fathom, if one is not a winged whatsit, but rather a heavy-hearted klutz on a scooter, it's a whole different story. Navigating the murky streets of Ham and Richmond in the pouring rain, on a weathered scooter with a wonky wheel, such an excursion becomes less of a journey and more of a grim, terrifying form of nightmare-fodder.

For one thing, Teddington lies across the river. I had the option of schlepping all the way down to Horse Fair to cross, or take the footbridge accessed via the riverside park. It should be noted that the track through that park is very poorly lit. Not only did I upend myself into muddy puddles at least half a dozen times, but I also caught the eye of a mean-looking stag who had wandered down from Richmond Park, and was sheltering under a large oak. For a heart-stopping moment, he looked just about ready to charge me and skewer me with his horns. Thankfully he decided I wasn't worth the trouble, and turned away with a derisive snuff.

When I finally turned off the Teddington High street into the road where Uncle Tom's pal lived, I quite literally wept with relief. The rain had gone from downpour to monsoon, and my waterlogged clothes had taken on approximately ten tons of mud. Shaking, weary and despairing, I rapped at the door, collapsing onto the brickwork.  
Christopher Lee must have had nothing on me, for as soon as Uncle Tom took in my appearance, he promptly emitted a pitch-perfect Wilhelm scream.  
The backseat of his Aston Martin was lined with old towels, and as he carted me back to Brinkley Court, I dozed in a foetal position upon them.

 ***

I blearily registered Uncle Tom pulling into the driveway and killing the engine. All I wanted to do was finish dying in the backseat, and let the others deal with my mud-caked cadaver on the morrow. The brisk ire of two dozen roller derby champions and their chums was one thing. The fermented fury of two dozen _rain-soaked_  roller derby champions and their chums was definitely a poorer option than just expiring where I was.

'Bertie...' my Uncle piped up, 'they're not outside!'

As I staggered out of the car, the sight of merry-makers in the lit windows and the sound of lighthearted chatter filtered into my addled senses, and an unexpected volley of bitterness clenched at my innards. Had they been safely inside and partying this whole bally time!?

A cacophony of squealing and laughter met me at the front door. I staunchly refused to look any of the blighters in the face as I loped towards the stairs. I didn't even care when I caught sight of Florence, Honoria and Scarlett beaming at me as one, with their arms all flung around each other's shoulders, bopping away to Big Bad Voodoo Daddy.

As I grasped at the bannister, I felt Reg's gentle arm slip around my waist and assist me up to my old room.

***

'Take these, poppet, they're Bertie's favourite bath salts. He was always nicking them from my ensuite.'  
'Thank you, Mrs Travers.'  
'I'll be just downstairs if he needs anything else. There's plenty of leftover pizza.'

I continued stewing in my hateful silence as I was eased into the steaming tub, and my wretched scaly blackguard of a beau massaged almond-scented shampoo into my scalp.  
'When Ms Glossop drove Scarlett home that night, she subsequently called Lady Florence, just after we parted with her. The three of them made the trip out to Hanwell together. They stayed at my family's place til the early hours, drinking tea and watching television. Lady Florence is just as fond of Scarlett as her girlfriend is. She also considered our white lie about Ms Glossop rather amusing - in hindsight, at least.'  
'My suede loafers are ruined, aren't they,' I shot back.

His fingers stilled here. 'I shall buy you another pair and scotchgard them myself,' he responded, 'provided that they are not teal.'  
'How the devil did you all get back in, anyway?'  
'I... confess I had a spare key concealed,' the villain answered. 'I took it from your backpack left on the sofa, as the guests ran from the house. It occurred to me that should you make such a tedious journey for no reason, and should our companions experience the relief of returning inside after such an unpleasant shock, then they would be mirthful upon your return. However, I may have been too reckless. Like yourself, I had supposed one of the family's bicycles would be at hand... and I sadly did not account for the rainstorm.'

Brutus! Judas! Low down lawyer! Had I any strength left, I would have grabbed him by the throat and throttled him.  
' _You_... I can't  _bloody_ believe...' I sputtered. 'I could have DIED, Reg!! In fact, I almost got gored by a rogue stag! And - and - look at this godawful scrape on my arm!' I feebly held aloft the grisly evidence.

And then, the slimy dirty toad leant into me, resting his rotten pretty head on my shoulder, and tenderly scooped up my injured arm to kiss it.  
'I am so sorry, my precious love. Please forgive me. I promise you, I will never put you in danger ever again.'

Damn him damn him DAMN HIM. 

'Massage my back,' I commanded sternly, and luxuriated in the delicate pressure of his fingers.


	10. Chapter 10

**28TH JULY**

Well - that's that then, I suppose.

In rare and exalted moments in one's life, a bitter winter of discombobu-whatsit is made glorious summer by the advent of a Good Thing. This Good Thing, in all its dreamy splendour, lifts a chap out of his usual arid slog and into a sort of suspended shangri-la, where crackling happiness is the baseline emotion, and even the most humdrum daily duties are tempered with a sheen of gold.

The thing is, about this Good Thing, is that it cannot last. Eden is inevitably full of slippery reptiles. As an award-winning authority on Bible verses, you'd think I'd have internalised this by now. I'm telling you - the sooner you get used to bitter, crushing disappointment in this spiky-edged old world, the better off you'll be. I mean, you'll still hurt like billy-o, but at least you'll have seen the blow coming. By Jove, I do wish I'd had the sense to embrace such vigilance before...

I suppose it all started with that banjo.

After the scooter incident, a provisional truce was called in our little household, and the atmos. returned to its calm and sunny standard. One Thursday night, Catsmeat invited me along to a show at Ronnie Scott's. Now, I don't know if you've ever heard of a genre called bluegrass-ragtime, but it's pretty much exactly what it sounds like. The humble banjo, usually a bit player in the jazz world, is given its chance to shine as a fast-fire leading lady. The act we saw that night goes by the name of Fingers McCoy and the Appalachian Hep-Cats, and I warmly recommend that you check out their discography. They set the audience thumping and yowling with their dexterous swinging, jiving and hoe-downing. Their cover of 'Devil Went Down to Georgia' was particularly stirring - though of course in this version, it was a banjo that was the weapon of choice.

As it happens, I had lately felt my YouTube performances growing a tad stale; I have to admit that my recent cover of 'Foggy Day in London Town', performed al fresco on my Roland during a particularly pea-soupy morning, was a bit too on-the-nose. Thus far, I had cast around for new ideas fruitlessly - that is, until I harkened the electrifyingly twangy riffs of said Hep-Cats.  
The very next morning, I rushed down to the music shops on Denmark street, eager to have fire fly from my fingertips.

One thing I can tell you about learning the banjo is that the bloody callouses are agony. Never have I been so eager to wash the dishes by hand, just to have an excuse to immerse my poor puffy pads in warm water! That being said, my pains in learning the instrument were more than matched by the reaction I got from Reg. The moment he clapped eyes on the thing, he flinched back and pulled a face that reminded me of a taxidermied frog that takes up residence on Uncle George's mantelpiece.  
His appraisal of my strumming and plucking was clearly conveyed by the donning of earphones and the regular slamming of the bedroom door whenever I broke into a tune. I can't say for sure if this was exacerbated by my favouring of 'Despacito' as a regular piece. All the same, I maintain that it is an appalling prejudice that he would do well to correct.

It was hardly my fault that this new fancy came to me while Reg was simultaneously handed a hefty property sale from one of his titled clients. If he really wanted peace and quiet to work in, he could easily have found that in his office after hours, or even via good pair of noise cancelling headphones. One unfortunate evening, just as I was mastering a tricky chord progression, he had the gall to swoop out from the bedroom and command me to, and I quote, 'cease that infernal din'. And here I thought he enjoyed my music. Some admirer, he - the man that hath no music in himself is fit only for treasons, stratagems and thingummies.

Anyway, it's not like Reg has been the only one with added stress and responsibility lately. Celia is extremely high-maintenance, and prone to tantrums if I leave her on her own for too long. Last week, I came home from a shift at the piano bar to find her tearing the stuffing out of a throw pillow. I'd take the poor dear along with me, if she weren't so inclined to sing along to my playing with that squeaky voice of hers. All the same, she needs my love and attention, and it's hardly sporting of Reg to have held that against me. To be honest, I think he was getting rather jealous of her by the end.

It just occurred to me that I should probably fill you in on the above sitch. It started with a rude and grievous shock. In the dead of a grey and muggy weeknight, I was deeply ensconced in the arms of Morpheus (Reg had gradually become less and less cuddly in bed. On this night, he had scooted so far over onto his side, that he was practically planking off the mattress). We were both ripped from our unquiet slumber by a thunderous pounding at the door. While I strove to shake off my daze, I heard Reg grumble something about having to get up at six a.m. Rolling my eyes, I elected to be the gracious steward, and stuffed my feet into obliging slippers, shuffling into the front room.

The sight of a wild-eyed Roderick Spode, dressed all in black and toting an ominous-looking crate shrouded in heavy cloth, immediately caused my innards to wither into a runny pulp and pool at my feet. Now wide awake, I commended my spirit to the beyond, and prayed that the big lug wouldn't make my demise too excruciating. I'd had a pretty good run, all things considered.

'Bertie, old chap,' he hailed me amicably. 'I was wondering if you would be so kind as to do a favour for me?'  
I now supposed that I was dreaming, and wondered if that fluorescent rabbit from the previous night would show up and start smashing the crockery again.  
'I really am in a spot of bother here,' Spode told me, inviting himself in and setting the crate down on the coffee table. 'I've just now discharged my duty to be a moral citizen, scoring points for the good souls in our society. However, I am in need of a safe place to secure my prize. I don't suppose you'd be up for a bit of caretaking?'

All I could do was blink groggily at him, as I tried and failed to make sense of these words.  
'No-one puts baby in a corner!' Came a high-pitched exclamation, seemingly from nowhere, and I fell back against the sofa.  
Spode ripped the cloth off the crate, and inside was revealed a pert, splendidly coloured little parrot. While most of her body was an ombré of bright green and yellow, her wings and tail were tipped with sapphire, and a burst of rich orange plumage covered her tummy.

'Celia is a darling little thing, isn't she?' Spode remarked, noting my sudden pique of interest. 'Her native habitat is the wild grasslands of Tasmania, and she is a critically endangered species. Unfortunately, she had been purchased on the black market as a chick, gifted to the son of an unscrupulous American real-estate mogul. The little brat had been teaching her appalling catch phrases from low-brow entertainment.'  
'Eat my shorts,' Celia retorted, and I discerned a distinct Hollywood accent.  
'She was rescued from her cruel captors earlier tonight, and we need a place for her to lie low until she can be safely transferred to a reputable wildlife sanctuary.'  
'And I take it you can't stash her at your place, given you have a reputation to uphold as UKIP's favourite pitbull?' I replied, my eyes following the flitting of the wee creature.

'UKIP!?' He thundered, as if he had caught someone in the act of defacing Westminster Abbey. 'Those crooks have all the ethical acumen of adulterous grave robbers! I left their sordid party behind last November!'  
Something in me softened a bit. It was clear that the great orangutan had begun to grow some kind of a conscience.  
'I am now a proud member of PEACUK. Their vision and tireless dedication to the safety of all animals in the UK has lit a flame in me, Bertie.'  
For those of you who don't know, People for Empathetic Animal Care UK is a far-left political party who never does terribly well in elections. This was a positively record-setting 180 for a man to make on his personal philosophies.  
'They have ties to ALF and FawkesLeaks, don't they?' I asked him cagily. As I sat there, taking in his attire - a black beanie, black turtleneck and black climbing boots, not to mention a rather unflattering pair of black shorts, all the pieces began to drop into place.  
'Spode... did... did you just pinch this bird from its owner yourself!?'  
He sniffed. 'Of course not. I had assistance from expert collaborators.'  
'I _can't_ have stolen wildlife in my flat!' I declared. 'I've already been convicted of theft of a policeman's helmet - I can't imagine what the law will do to me if they find out about _this!'_  
'What's wrong, McFly? Chicken?' Celia challenged.  
'Nobody calls me chicken,' I shot back.

Spode eyed me with a shade of his old menace. 'I'm a vigilante hero. I have rescued this poor defenceless creature from a dreary life of bondage. She now may have the opportunity to mate with others of her kind and replenish the species. Would you really deny her that?'  
I made the mistake of looking into the parrot's soft, glossy dark eyes. 'It's a hard knock life,' she lamented.  
I'd had enough unpleasant confrontations in the past few weeks, and really, the Code of the Woosters could hardly permit tossing a poor little birdie out into the night.  
'Just for a while, Spode,' I insisted, shooting him as shrewd of a glare as I could. 'I expect her to be re-homed by the end of the month.'

His billowing red face broke into a grin, his reedy mustache stretching like a frayed string of yarn. 'Marvellous! Well then, good evening. I'll be in touch at length. Make sure she gets only organic wild bird feed. The poor dear really shouldn't be given that ghastly generic Tesco stuff.'  
'Right ho,' I right-hoed. As Spode turned to clomp off, a thought occurred to me:  
'Roderick, old thing? Why have you chosen _me_ of all people to harbour Celia? It's not as if we're terrific pals.'  
He sputtered a bit. 'Well... you're just such a _trustworthy-_ '  
'Is it because you don't want Sir Watkyn finding out about your underground animal railroad chums?'  
More sputtering was put forth, and Spode's face went from pale sunset to brilliant magenta.  
'I see,' I responded cryptically. 'Goodnight... silly old bear.' And I closed the door on the great flustered grizzly.

***

Anyway, Celia promptly began to settle into her new foster home. She eagerly harmonised with my continued crooning of 'Despacito', much to the displeasure of Reg. Every time he got home from work, he would wordlessly sweep past us to the secluded bedroom, clicking the door shut. As he went by, I could see a vein pulsing on the side of his neck, keeping perfect time to Luis Fonsi's scintillating Latin beats. How a strapping grown man can be given such pip by one chirpy miniature parrot, I'll never know.  
Even less forgivable was how Reg chose to handle all of these new happenings, not three days later.

I had invited a bevvy of Drones over, wishing to exhibit my newfound skill. However, after I plucked the final refrain of _'Something something Despacito / Something something Ay Bendito'_ , my friends' attention began to wane a tad, and floated towards the telly. I knew Reg was cloistered away in the bedroom as usual, poring over clauses of zoning law, so I urged them to keep the noise down to a muted rumble. This proved difficult, as the multiple rounds of Jackbox that were played grew dashed intense. Celia joined in the clamour, cheeping spiritedly from her perch whenever a roar of triumph or defeat was emitted.

The _coup de grace_ came when Stinker Pinker beat out Boko at Trivia Murder Party by a slim whisker. Stinker leapt from his seat in a great upsurge of victory, pumping his fist in the air. 'In your face, Fittleworth!!' Not very suitable behaviour for a man of God, I would think.  
Upon the second fist-pump, his beefy elbow came into contact with the adjacent bookshelves, and the inevitable happened. Upon his head rained the OED, half of the collected works of Evelyn Waugh (in hardcover), and a number of brittle and beautiful ornaments - including the glazed ceramic elephant figure that _Dadaa_ Balvinder had gifted to Reg upon his graduation.  
'Stinker, you bumbling twit!!' I exclaimed. As the oaf clutched at his head, I rushed to gather the precious heirloom in my hands. The poor pachyderm was cracked and chipped, missing an ear and most of his trunk. A black hole suddenly opened up, somewhere around the region of my lower intestine.

'Will you kindly keep the noise-' Reg had whisked the bedroom door open to deliver his reprimand, and he fell speechless upon catching sight of the broken treasure in my clutches.  
'It wasn't me, it was an accident, Stinker had to go and whack-' I yammered, as my man padded up to me and took the figure from my hands, his expression growing darker and darker by the second.  
'This was _Dadaa's_ most prized possession... it was said to have belonged to Maharajah Duleep Singh...'  
'Surely it can't be that bad?? Superglue - we need superglue - Boko, check the kitchen! Stinker, stop crying! Honestly Reg, you can't possibly blame me for-'  
'That's enough.' Reg commanded. At his frigid tone of voice, the room fell dead silent.

In a low, menacing murmur, he continued: 'I've had all that I can take.'  
My heart was clattering against my ribcage. 'Look, I can ask this lot to leave and clean up the mess, and maybe-'  
'I've had enough of _you,_ Bertram.'

With this, he stormed into the bedroom, and I could hear the whoosh and slam of closet doors and shoulder bags being opened. The mute, petrified Drones all fixed their eyes squarely on me. Even Celia dared not peep.  
He emerged with suitcase and baggage in hand, his brow set low and hard.  
'...Where are you going!?' I demanded.  
'Anywhere but here,' he snapped. And with one smooth glide through the front door, he was gone.

***

I vaguely noticed the movements of the Drones about me, clearing up their mess. And someone - Angela, I think - resting a compassionate hand on my shoulder. To be honest, I was having trouble processing everything. To be _truly_ honest, I was positively catatonic. Pure shock had quickly fallen on me like a shroud, deadening every one of my synapses.  
  
I'm pretty sure I slept at some point, flung down on the sofa like a mass of wet pasta. I returned to consciousness with the sunrise, staring at an elephant-less bookshelf for the better part of three hours.  
Reg was gone. He was no longer mine. Would I ever even see his face again?

The deep wound had winded me to the point where I could barely move. Just as I resigned myself to live out my days as a witless vegetable, the phone rang.  
'Bertie, old potato!' Came the cheery hail. 'How are you? It's Chuffy, I'm up in town for the night.'

My old pal Chuffy, formally titled the 15th Baron Chuffnell, is the most solid of blokes. Given his _noblesse oblige_ , he keeps house at his old family pile down in Somerset. While most of the manor is as creaky and ramshackle as a Myspace account, the front hall has hosted a good few Drones get-togethers in its time.

I went into auto-pilot, reciting all the what-ho-old-things, how've-you-been-keepings and just-spiffing-thank-yous that you tend to trot out when chatting with someone you've not seen for a while.  
'I swear it's been years since we've had a chance to chew the fat,' he told me. 'Why don't you join me down at The Savoy for a spot of lunch? You can catch me up on all the latest chatter here in London!'

After I got off the line with Chuffy, I obediently lugged my useless corpse off the sofa to bathe, dress, and ankle my way outside. When all else fails, routine social obligations are a fail-safe prompt to action.

We nestled ourselves in with a couple of gin-and-tonics, and I took note of the bright, rosy aspect that my companion was exuding. 'You look well, Chuffy. What's got you up here in the big smoke, then?' I was anxious to veer the conversation away from my own messy destitution.  
'I'm up here on business, Bertie. I don't know if you've heard yet, but I'm planning to sell the estate.'  
News indeed! 'Well, well! Off to pastures new, then? Tell me, is there much call for woebegone old country houses these days?'  
'Are there ever!' Chuffy declared. 'I've already got a prospective buyer - he's over from America, and he's keen to convert the thing into a swank country club. I'm angling to get a much better price on the place than I would from a local buyer. Once the deal goes through, I could buy up half of Bath if I wanted!'  
'Ah well, bully for you then,' I said, and chugged the rest of my drink.

 'And what of yourself?' Chuffy enquired. 'Word is you've been writing a successful blog. Though to be honest, I'm far more intrigued by this new fellow you've gotten your paws on. I hear he's something of an Adonis, not to mention a smart cookie. When will I get a chance to meet him?'

These casually aired words acted as something of an incantation on me. The moment I pictured said Adonis in my head, the fog of bewilderment was burned away, leaving in its wake a searing, dreadful despair. My Reg... oh my noble, brilliant Reg! Dun and hollow and hopeless appeared my future, and wretched appeared my lot.

Had the past months, with their cozy mornings, passionate nights, and gentle cherished companionship, been but a waking dream? Was the Reginald Mandeep Jeeves I'd known just some fevered phantasm of my feeble mind, formed only to torment me with a love that could never be? Could never _have_ been? I reeled at the bitter cruelty of so suddenly being torn from him, like skin from one's own living body. All of my insides ached, and my throat grew harshly tight.

Chuffy was certainly none the wiser, as he valiantly tried to guide me through my tearful convulsions. 'Good heavens, are you alright?... breathe, old boy, breathe deep... there we go. Let me get you another drink. That's it, keep breathing.'  
I attempted to collect myself, and inform my friend that Reg and I had parted brass rags. My chosen phrase 'Reg left me' came out as a snot-laden gargle that sounded more like 'Wregh neff-meeeeeeah!!'

It was only after I had drained the second g. & t. that I could clearly inform Chuffy of my tragic circs.  
'Oh, Bertie, I'm so sorry to hear that. Tell you what: I'm heading back to Chuffnell Regis tomorrow, where I'll be meeting with my buyer. Why not tag along with me? A change of air could get all this heartbreak out of your system. I'll set you up in the gamekeeper's cottage, it's a little peach of a pad. Climbing wisteria and everything. What do you say?'  
Did I not tell you that Chuffy was the most solid of blokes?

We exchanged particulars, and Chuffy scooted off to an afternoon business meeting. Now alone, set adrift on the busy London streets, I found myself at rather a loss. Deftly avoiding the vicinity of Blackfriars, I shuffled my way over Waterloo Bridge. In the midst of the foot traffic, I was unexpectedly hit with a flare of anger. It finally struck me that Reg had coldly torn up my raw loving heart over little more than a minor aural disagreement! All of those sweet declarations of love and acts of care we once shared were nothing to him, apparently. God forbid he ever had to compromise for the sake of a loved one. Well, if indeed he ever  _counted_  me as a loved one, and not some trivial trinket to be binned once the novelty wore off.

Innervated by my outrage, I decided to make a power move. I reached South Bank, plopped myself on a bench, and composed this text:

_I shall be leaving town for a while. You may pack your things at your convenience. Drop the key off with Jervis. -BWW_

Ultimately, I decided against including the sentence _'I hope you get torn apart by rabid newts, you cold-blooded incubus'_ , and then thumped 'Send'. A moment later, I blocked the blighter's number, and threw an evil eye out across the Thames, in the general direction of Seppings & Jeeves Solicitors.

***

The next afternoon, following a rather hangover-ish train ride, I found myself standing on the threshold of the gamekeeper's cottage at Chuffnell Regis. As promised, it was a quaint and rustic affair - all window boxes and thatched roofing, with an enviable view of rolling green hills and the harbour beyond. Celia and the banjo had come with me, of course - out in the wilds of Somerset, I was quite looking forward to the three of us making as much of an infernal din as we pleased.

After settling myself in and quaffing a few cups of the bracing, I reached for the sheet music and launched into a merry 'Despacito', with Celia perkily tweeting along. From there, I played the most deliberately cheerful tunes that I could remember: 'A Couple of Swells', 'Singin' in the Rain', 'Hakuna Matata' and 'I'm on a Boat', among others. Speaking of boats, as I plucked away, I noticed a large shape looming on the horizon of the sea. As it came into sight, I discerned the largest, slickest, most gaudy yacht that I had ever clapped my peepers on.  
I mean, we call these nautical behemoths 'yachts', but they hardly resemble those zippy sporting boats with the tall pointy sails, do they? This thing was more like a floating gentrified suburb. It fit in with the surrounding provincial bay in the same way that Aunt Agatha would fit in amongst a litter of snuffling labrador puppies.

At length, I was summoned to the hall for dinner, where Chuffy introduced me to the owner of this maritime monstrosity: the renowned American real-estate tycoon, J. Washburn Stoker.

What to say about a man like J. Washburn Stoker? Well, to start off, he put me in mind of a bulldog that had stuck its head into a large bag of cheesy wotsits, and had inadvertently turned an unseemly day-glo orange. Not to mention he possessed a temperament to match. Those mean little eyes of his roved over the Wooster corpus with a look of such blatant disapproval that I was in fear of being tossed down the marble stairs. He was in no way redeemed by the presence of his young son Dwight - the little fungus incessantly recited statistics regarding his father's bloody yacht. Even plying him with biscuits didn't do much, he simply sprayed crumbs everywhere as he rambled on about the square metreage of the sun deck, or something.

In addition, Stoker was dutifully shadowed by a sober-suited man-mountain whom he referred to only as Bingley. With such a name, I am sure you are likely to picture a soft, Disney-prince sort of chap who looks susceptible to hen-pecking. On the contrary, he was built along distinctly Spode-like lines, with a face that could (and probably did) shatter concrete.

The two saving graces of the entourage came in the form of Stoker's daughters: the cordial Emerald, a student at Cordon Bleu, and my old acquaintance Pauline. During my gap year in New York, the two of us had hit it off and shared many a chummy knish together. When I had known her, she had been an aspiring playwright living with her mother in Brooklyn - now, she was an up-and-coming screenwriter based in Hollywood. She had collaborated with Boko on the film adaption of his book, and defended the story from crass re-writes like a tigress protecting her cub. Pippin of a girl, if ever there was one.

One thing that was somewhat peculiar about the Stoker clan was their variety, shall we say. Pauline is most easy on the eyes, tall and dark-skinned, with lush ringlets of thick black hair. Emerald, also very pretty, has aquiline features and equally dark colouring, though her heritage seems to be more Mediterranean. In turn, Dwight has the almond eyes and smooth straight hair of East Asian ancestry. For all the horrendously racist comments and anti-immigration opinions he was spouting, Stoker certainly seemed to have eclectic tastes.

To veer the conversation away from Stoker's screed on the Mexican border, I turned my attention to the spread of barbecue ribs, corn bread and mac & cheese. 'Hearty nosh, Chuffy. I don't think I'll be hungry for the next week!'  
'Ah, yer a lightweight, Wooster,' Stoker riposted, annoyingly pronouncing my name to rhyme with 'rooster'. 'This is the kinda food real men eat. None of your wussy limey Jamie Oliver crap.'  
Pauline rolled her eyes and shot me a sardonic grin.

'So anyway, Your Excellency,' he addressed Chuffy, 'I'm thinkin' that we could include some free-roaming albino peacocks around the grounds. You nobility types always used to go in for that kinda stuff, right? The only issue would be trying to keep the buggers away from the golf course. Can ya see what your lawyer has to say about installing a bird-proof razor fence?'  
'Daddy, what about _my_ bird?' Dwight whinged.  
'I told you, son, you shoulda been less careless! If it flew away, it flew away! What do ya expect ME to do?'  
'But she was stolen! I know it!'

As a slightly light-headed terror overcame me, Pauline explained. 'Dwight used to have this cute little pet parrot, he'd taught it a whole lot of famous catchphrases. He's totally convinced that someone snuck into his cabin and pinched it.'  
'You know, Bertie has a pet parrot!' Chuffy helped. 'Dwight, perhaps you could see Bertie's bird while you're here?'  
Dwight's response to this was a dismissive raspberry, for which I was eternally grateful.

'Anyway, Mr Stoker,' Chuffy continued, 'I had invited my solicitor along to dinner tonight. He said he'd be here, so I can only wonder what the hold-up is.'  
Right on cue, the housekeeper entered the dining room (a munitious splinter from the door-frame catching on her cardigan), and announced that a man had arrived at the door. Chuffy excused himself to greet the visitor and soon re-emerged.  
  
'Speak of the devil, eh? Stokers all, Mr Bingley, Bertie, may I introduce my solicitor, Mr Reginald Jeeves.'


	11. Chapter 11

**31ST JULY**

Chuffy must have caught onto the fractious standoff between Reg and self, as he demurely queried: 'You two know each other?'   
I myself caught onto the fact that my left shirt cuff was currently submerged in the mac and cheese.

Resolving to maintain the Wooster dignity, I stood up, keeping my eyes fixed sharply on the interloper.  
'Yes, Chuffy, In fact we do,' I announced. 'Mr Jeeves and I once shared a brief, impersonal acquaintance with one another. I am sure he is far too busy and important to recall it.'  
A certain flare sparked in Reg's eyes at this, though his brow quivered nary a micrometre.  
'Mr Wooster.' He shot me a cold, brief nod, before turning entirely away from me, finding his seat at the table.

The meal continued, sinking further and further into the infernal inner circles of awkwardness. Chuffy was determined to talk shop, and occupied the entirety of Reg and Stoker's combined attention. I caught a few snippets of negotiation, something about a tiki-themed smoking room and gold-plated fountains.  
From across the table, Dwight eyed me suspiciously, casually stabbing a luckless piece of cornbread with his knife. I made an effort to look as innocuous as possible, and prayed fervently that he hadn't developed any ideas about the source of my new feathered friend.

'What did you _do_ to that poor man, Bertie?' Pauline asked, indicating Reg with a tilt of her head.  
'My dear girl,' I returned with no little umbrage, 'I think you'll find it's what _he_ did to _me_ that was the maggot in the strawberry coulis!'  
She screwed up her lips in a somewhat charming manner, considering me. 'Ex-boyfriend, is he?'  
I chose not to dignify that with a response.

At long last, coffee was served, and I seized the chance to escape to the formal lounge for a breather. The air around that table had grown thicker than congealed cheese sauce, and I was well beyond yearning to escape to my little cottage.  
Just as I had successfully unclenched my jaw, I felt someone shimmer into the room behind me.  
Reg's bearing was stiff and sullen. 'Why are you being so cruel to me?' He demanded.  
  
I could have bitten a chunk off the mantelpiece, I was so riled by his cheek!  
'Oho! O-HO! 'Cruel', he declared grandly! _I'm_ the one being cruel, am I, Reg?' Many a wild gesticulation was flung about the place. The much-envied Wooster sass was at peak performance. 'This is quite the accusation _indeed_ , from a chap who would abandon his adoring swain so heartlessly! You can't have loved me very much at all, if all your feelings vanished at the appearance of a stringed instrument and a small grassland parrot!'

Another spark of something flickered in his eyes, at which he moved to retort: 'Do you _really_ believe that-'  
'I say, what's going on in here, then? No problems, I trust?' Chuffy had popped his head in, endeavouring to keep his voice light and chummy. The contraction of his pupils and his pinched grin reminded me of my old piano teacher, whenever she tried to prompt me on my minor arpeggios.

I would not be deterred. 'The problem is that Reginald Jeeves is a butterfly, who toys with men's hearts and throws them away like teal loafers!'  
Chuffy frowned. 'I didn't know butterflies did that.'  
Reg dared to contend again. 'Apologies m'lord, I believe there has been an unpleasant-'

I could bear his pompous rationalisations no more! 'Oh, go and snog Bingo Little, you ruinous sack of smug!'  
Pulse racing and temper searing, I tore out of Chuffnell Hall and stamped my way along the winding gravel path, back to the sanctum of the cottage.

Given that my nearest neighbour was a good one-and-a-half miles off, I felt no qualms about taking my seething fury out on the banjo. Celia cowered in the corner of her crate as I chucked out the power chords, wailing my way through 'Bullet with Butterfly Wings' and 'Cell Block Tango'. Given the zeal with which I was strumming away, my fingers quickly grew sore, and after this I settled into a cup or three of tea. Sleep was an elusive fancy, so I remained simmering on a cozy armchair, staring out at the stars.

Once the zestiest layer of my anger had fully burned away, I came over feeling rather weathered. In the hopes of soothing myself, I picked up the banjo once more and attempted a few gentle ballads. If they happened to be 'What'll I Do' or 'Hopelessly Devoted To You', well, that's entirely inconsequential.

***

I was roused by a steady knock upon the front door, espying Chuffy's amiable grin through the mullioned glass panelling.  
Thrusting a thermos of coffee into my hand, he examined my eyebags and gnarly posture with concern. 'Everything alright, old chap? We were quite worried about you after your departure.'  
I shook my woozy dome, not wanting to trouble the fellow. 'Sorry about all that. Just a spot of personal drama, nothing worth mounting an expedition for.'  
'But I heard you belting out Billy Corgan and Olivia Newton-John last night. Quite an alarming combo, I must say. Come take a spot of fresh air with me, the weather is positively celestial today.'

As we ambled through the estate gardens, he coaxed me to spill the legumes. I tried not to overshare - given his current preoccupation trying to wrangle Stoker into the sale, I reckoned he could be spared the grisly details. I mentioned the banjo, but purposefully edited out the bit about the elephant on the shelf.

As we turned out of the front gates and moseyed towards the village, Chuffy considered all I had told him.  
'Do you know that Seargent Voules plays the hurdy-gurdy? You two ought to get together for a jam session sometime. Anyway, don't worry about Mr Jeeves, it shouldn't be hard to keep a wide berth from him. He's up to his neck in trying to validate all the additions that Stoker wants to make to the estate. I can't say I've ever heard of a country club hosting its own on-site bowling alley and casino before.'  
A burst of revulsion shimmied its way up my spine. 'Are you really comfortable with Stoker mangling your ancestral seat like this? I always figured you to be a man of good taste, Chuffy.'  
His face drooped a bit here, like a school-child upon discovering that the contents of their lunchbox are naught but a soggy cucumber sandwich and generic-label apple juice.  
'It's a bit of a bind, Bertie,' he confessed. 'I'm so hard-up that I really can't afford to keep the place running any more. When I first put it on the market, I got nary a bite. By the time Stoker blustered in with this Faustian pact of his, it was just about my last lifeline.'  
'Rum,' I murmured.  
'Well yes. There's also... well...'  
A touch of colour returned to his dial, and my curiousity was stirred.  
'Yes?'  
'Well... um, did Pauline happen to say anything about me last night?'

Ah, so now we came to the point. 'Why Chuffy. Have we a touch of the noggin-over-tootsies for Ms Stoker?'  
The usual sermon about beautiful eyes and a tender, generous spirit was sprayed at me, and I accepted it good-naturedly. 'I know her father is a churl, but if I can cotton favour with him, then it will lend weight to my case when I finally bare my heart to the sweet girl. What do you think?'  
I nodded at him graciously, croaking out a stilted 'Hm!'

You may wonder, dear readers, at my uneasy reaction to Chuffy's romantic proclamation. Please don't get the impression that I am opposed to the match: Chuffy and Pauline are both good eggs who deserve happiness. However, the subj. automatically conjured up a spectre of my past, one I happened to share with the beloved Pauline.  
During my free-wheeling gap year, I was invited to a party at a spacious apartment in Washington Square, shared by a chef friend of Emerald Stoker's and a lass who worked at Ralph Lauren, if I recall. I dragged a reluctant Gussie Fink-Nottle along - the bespectacled dweeb ended up with an orange-juice-induced sugar high, busting a move with Emerald to the electronica-heavy playlist on the stereo.  
Anyway, a jolly game of truth-or-dare was held, as is the custom. I was well into my cups by the time my turn came around, and I boldly demanded a dare. The task assigned was dashed lofty: I had to not only kiss a female, but plant a good hearty snog on her for at least a minute. Pauline merrily volunteered herself, and screwing my courage to the adhesive, we dove in.  
My brief flirtation with heterosexuality was nowhere near as irksome as I had feared: I kissed a girl, and I didn't mind it. Lip-locking is mostly a gender-neutral discipline, anyway; not only was her technique impressive, but I was put in mind of the kisses I'd shared with fellow Etonians (particularly the boys whose facial hair had yet to develop). In turn, Pauline was most complimentary towards the Woosterian prowess for smooching, recommending me to any willing chaps in need of amour.

Now, this episode was a harmless one, mostly. But a niggle at the base of my brain could not be contained - given my track record with the fates, I couldn't help but fear the possibility of the liaison being dredged up at the most disastrous possible moment, like some blasted Cthulu.

By this time, we were approaching the Chuffnell Regis town common, and Chuffy was deep into a treatise on the beauty of Pauline's laugh. As we entered the high street, we were arrested by the sight of a rabble of raffish protesters, wielding home-made placards and bellowing out the following chant:   
'Screw you, Chuffnell / Sent our town straight to hell!  
Sapped our village of its soul / sold out to an orange troll!'

Upon absorbing both this and the angry all-caps content of the placards: 'NO COUNTRY CLUB IN CHUFFNELL REGIS', 'KEEP YOUR T-REX HANDS OFF OUR LAND', and 'STICK STOKER IN THE STOCKS', among others, Chuffy's face did this sort of twitchy, spasmy thing, and he turned tail like a squirrel in the sight-line of a frisky terrier.  
'Toodle-oo, Bertie,' he called, already scarpering back towards the estate.

At a lull in the rhythmic hollering, I harkened a high-frequency squeak beckoning to me: 'Oh, darling Bertie!'  
What latched onto my arm then were the tiny little manicured fingers belonging to a Ms Madeline Bassett. She set her round, waifish eyes on me in delight. 'I am so glad to see that you've joined the demonstration!'  
'Ah well, you know me. Man of principle and all that.'  
'Yes, of course. I think it downright horrid of Chuffy to be forsaking his town and his heritage for a quick sleazy buck! Did you know that the estate and its surrounds are home to a huge variety of endemic wildlife? If this awful country club is built, then dear little creatures like Scudder's grey fox, the high-browed otter and the miniature grizzly hedgehog could all face extinction!'  
I spotted a forest green PEACUK badge perched on her blouse, which struck me as entirely true to form.

I was spared the need to provide an apt response to this by the arrival of Gussie Fink-Nottle, who was schlepping Madeline's placard across his sagging shoulders (it depicted cute cartoon versions of aforementioned woodland critters coiled about the PEACUK logo). 'I'm hungry and my feet hurt,' he grumbled.  
'Oh honestly Gussie. Can't you think of anything but your own selfish needs for two seconds?' This snipishness from wee Maddie was like a chipmunk exacting its wrath on a wilting ragweed.  
'But you promised we could go see the wild newts down at the estate creek!'  
'There won't _be_ any newts left if this sale goes through! Anyway, Bertie is donating his time and energy to be here.' She turned to me again. 'Have you signed the petition? We're delivering it to Chuffy tomorrow.'

She hauled us towards a campaign stand, where dedicated PEACUK volunteers were handing out flyers, collecting signatures and selling their forest green pins and t-shirts for fundraising.  
'Got another one, Maddie?' Asked one campaigner, eyeing me.  
'This is my friend Bertie!' She announced proudly. 'He's a friend of Chuffy's. He's absolutely appalled by the country club, and he's going to lend his voice to our cause.'  
'Nice one, Bertie. Say, maybe you could go with Madeline when the petition is handed over tomorrow?'  
'Oh. Er, maybe,' I supplied, as I jotted my signature down under the watch of round, waifish eyes.

Gussie continued whining about his aching flippers and rumbling stomach, and a huffing Madeline finally obliged by sitting us down on a nearby bench and digging out some cucumber sandwiches. Gussie eyed the food as if it had made an opprobrious remark about his face.  
It was turning out to be a day of chance encounters, as yet another familiar voice soon saluted us: 'Well, well! Bertie! Gussie, you old dear!'  
  
Emerald Stoker sashayed her way through the straggling protesters, her face split into a luminescent smile. In her hands, she was toting a large wicker basket. 'Pauline and I decided to have a picnic brunch by the creek on the estate. I was just on my way to get some fresh cream for the pumpkin scones I baked last night.'  
'Pumpkin scones?' Gussie repeated, perking up substantially.  
'Oh yes. What else have I got in here?' She opened the basket lid, and a positively orgiastic medley of aromas met us. 'Chicken drumsticks, cheese croissants, some chartcuterie... and chocolate souffle for dessert. Pauline has the makings of orange mimosas, too.'  
Gussie's glasses had actually fogged up. When a man is made to subsist on falafel and roughage for months, a bounty such as the aforementioned must lend a euphoria grander than a giddy meeting with one's favourite celebrity.  
'Emerald, my friend,' Gussie announced, gathering himself up and tossing Madeline's placard down on the bench, 'allow me to assist you. I know of a fantastic grocer around here that sources their goods from an award-winning dairy farm near Bruton.'  
'Oh, how wonderful! Would you like to join the picnic?'  
'It would be my pleasure.'

He slung a lanky arm over Emerald's shoulder as the two wandered off, Gussie regaling Emerald on the various species of newts native to the area. I reluctantly turned to Madeline, who was more than halfway to a deluge of distraught tears.  
'Oh... you brute, Gussie!' She squealed, and flung herself into my arms as she heaved out some truly impressive sobs. I made a note to have some stiff words with Fink-Nottle later.  
'There there, dear old Mads...' I cooed, trying to think of a way of comforting the poor little soubrette.   
Serendipity dutifully provided the goods, and I was blessed with a brainstorm. 'Say, Madeline, would you like to meet my new pet parrot?'

***

It turns out that serendipity is in fact a conniving, back-stabbing harpy. I was expecting to treat the weepy Madeline to the charms of melodious little Celia, serenading her with a cantata of cute chirps and famous movie quotes.  
What we in fact encountered was an empty bird crate, with its little door swinging listlessly on its hinges. It sat before the window-casement which I had left open to air out the room.

Upon this discovery, I made a strangled sound that utilised every vowel in the Indo-European language family.  
'Oh, no!' Madeline cried, rushing over the abandoned crate. 'Your little parrot, Bertie!'

It turns out that the crisis proved a good distraction for Madeline, as she was eager to participate in our ad-hoc search party. We both grabbed a baggie of Celia's favourite bird-seed and split up. Madeline took to the village streets, while I scoured the rolling meadows of the estate.  
Panic sat heavy at my core, throttling every breath and jolting every footstep. Quite apart from the unrecognisable shape that Spode would mash me into, I was quite concerned for the poor wee beast. What if she flapped her way into the bad neck of the woods, and got on the wrong side of a miniature grizzly hedgehog? 

I roved my way about the vast spread of lawns and dales of Chuffnell Hall, calling for Celia until my throat was a sandpapery wreck. I circled each copse of trees and shrubs I came across, sprinkling out portions of birdseed like a frantic Hansel.  
After at least two hours of this scouring, I roamed towards the creek, wondering whether she may have been attracted to the water source. As the sun drifted further and further across the sky, I stumbled my way along the side of the creek-bed. Still no luck. And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony!

Eventually, the creek opened out to the mouth of the wide estate pond, bordered by bundles of reeds. I scuttled my way along the steep bank, peering into the foliage, still keeping up hopes of spotting a flash of chartreuse feathers.  
My sticky-beaking was instead met by not one, not two, but an entire nest of peevish adolescent cygnets, hissing at me and nipping at the hem of my trousers. I shot up and away from the bank like a rubber band. I knew better than to linger, lest I run into the mother of these snappy little brats.  
Just as I my feet met with the springy green lawn, I came face to face with both Mumsie _and_ Papa Swan, irate with parental vigilance.

As I scampered in the first anti-swan-wise direction I could glimpse, I prayed Celia had not flown this way and run afoul of these monsters. This mini-reverie proved a disastrous mistake, as in the next moment I found myself tripping on an unseen tree root and being flung noggin-over-tootsies to the turf below. Mumsie and Papa Swan took their chance and lay into the Wooster corpus without mercy. I managed to shield my face before they could pluck out my eyeballs, however they managed to lay some impressively excruciating bites into my forearms.

I suppose even swans know to not kick a rotter when he's down, as my assailants soon lost interest at my pitiful belly-up position. They mercifully waddled off, back to their petulant brood of cygnets.  
Giving up the ghost, there was nothing for it but to limp back to the cottage. I held out little faith that Madeline had had any better luck. For all I knew, Celia could have been halfway to Majorca by that point.

Before I could sink too far into my misery, I was halted by the appearance of a rotund, walrus-moustached copper on his motorbike.  
'You there!' He hallooed, examining my pummelled form and dirt-caked hair, 'what's all this, then? You been causing trouble, young man?'  
I made an intrepid attempt to think on my feet. 'It was... marauders?'  
He narrowed his eyes at me, but ultimately decided I wasn't worth the bother.  
'I am Sergeant Voules of the Chuffnell Regis District Police Force. We been told that the visiting Mr Stoker suffered a robbery on his yacht some nights back, a small pet parrot being the stolen object in question. Just this afternoon, my nephew, Constable Dobson, received  a report of a parrot of the exact same description flitting about the village rooftops. You ain't seen any funny coloured birds around, have you, son?'  
It was all I could do to shake my head and simper sickly at him. 'Me? No, no... can't say I have.'  
'As you were then. Best you get some antiseptic on them injuries. And don't let me catch you in such a state again, you hear me?'  
He revved his motorbike away, and I hobbled back to the cottage as quickly as I could manage.

***

Loping into the front room, I collapsed back down onto the same soft armchair I had slept on the previous night. I wanly willed the inhabitants of Chuffnell Regis, both permanent and temporary, to just leave me be for the nonce. At the very least, they could allow enough time for the swan bites to scab over before they came darkening my doorstep again.  
It took me a few moments to realise that I was not alone in the room.  
'Aren't you a little short for a stormtrooper?'  
'Good afternoon, Mr Wooster.'

I opened the baby blues to behold Reg perched on the second armchair, while a much-enlivened Madeline was fussing over Celia, restored safely into her crate. 'Shut up and take my money!' the bird chittered.

'Wh...?'  
'I bumped into Jeeves the moment I got to the high street,' Madeline told me. 'He was all too happy to help us find your sweet little Celia.'  
'Wh...?' I repeated.  
'The solution was quite simple,' Reg began. 'The orange-bellied parrot nests in eucalypt trees. I had previously taken note of a plantation of imported lemon eucalypts, just south of the hall's front gates. I set up a pair of mobile speakers nearby and proceeded to play 'Despacito' at a high volume. Less than two minutes later, the animal alighted on a low-hanging branch, singing along to the tune with great relish.'  
'But you hate Celia!' I cried.  
Both Madeline and Reg cast a grievous glare at me for this. 'If I may correct you,' Reg continued gravely, 'my distaste for the pop refrain she has been taught does not extend to the creature herself. I am glad that she is safe.'  
I sighed, suddenly feeling a little saddened. 'Well, there you are, then.'  
'Forgive me, Mr Wooster, but has something untoward happened?'  
I looked down at my motley battle scars. 'Marauding swans,' I supplied.  
'Have you a first-aid kit in the cottage?'  
'Uhm...'  
He held onto his unreleased sigh, took me by the wrist, and dragged me into the bathroom.

As it happens, the medicine cabinet was well stocked with gauze, Savlon, and sticking-plasters. As I slouched on the rim of the tub, Reg made quick work of my wounds, dabbing them softly with a washcloth and dressing them with a light and nimble hand. He bid me roll up my trouser legs and rest my feet upon his lap, so as to attend to the mean little cygnet nips as well.  
  
'You know, I sometimes wonder whether my parents had ever insulted some capricious god of waterfowl, spurring him to curse their firstborn as the sworn foe of all aquatic birdlife.'  
'It is an intriguing, if fanciful notion,' Reg replied. 'In which case, I would advise you to steer clear of ibises. I am told their propensity for vengeance is quite formidable. But I believe you are forgetting Sir Feathergill.' Here he indicated my trusty rubber duckie, who was currently keeping watch over my half-empty bottle of bergamot body wash.  
'Oh, good old Feathergill,' I chuckled. 'You know, I hope you don't mind me splashing him about at bath-time. If you ever find it annoying, I can...' I remembered myself, and suddenly had a feeling of being plunged down into the bathypelagic. 'Ah. Well, I suppose he couldn't annoy you any more, eh?'

The slam of the front door resounded, and we discerned the strains of Gussie's voice. A few words between he and Madeline soon erupted into a screaming match worthy of the Borgias' family dinner table.  
'I take it that relations between Ms Bassett and Mr Fink-Nottle are currently unpropitious?'  
'That's one adjective for it. Gussie spent half the day gallivanting about with his old pal Emerald. Something tells me that the Bassett-Fink-Nottle alliance will soon go the way of the dinosaurs and flip phones. Still, give them credit, they lasted longer than we ever did.'

It seemed that this was the wrong thing to say, as Reg's eyes dropped to the floor like heavy weights. He mutely went about finishing his task, packing away the first-aid things, while I fidgeted a little and listened to a rowing Gussie and Madeline leave the cottage. The door slammed once more behind them.  
'Thank you for helping me today, Reg.' I said eventually.  
'I am delighted to be of assistance, Mr Wooster.'  
'I wish I knew how to quit you,' Celia warbled unhelpfully from the front room.

***

It came time for us to say goodbye, and I died a little. I guessed there was an outside chance Reg would bump into me one day while clearing out his stuff at the flat. But knowing how wily the old boy is, I wasn't about to bet on it. Lord knows when we would meet again.

Just as I watched his tall, solid form disappear behind a row of hedges, I found myself with even more visitors: Sergeant Voules, and a rangy, slightly cross-eyed lad clad in blue that could only be his nephew.  
'Hello again,' Voules greeted, tipping his helmet. I were just talking to Constable Dobson here, about our little chat earlier today. When I came to mention the bit about marauders, he came over all concerned. He thought we best check up on you and see you weren't getting into no more trouble.'  
'Them marauders of yours could be the ones what stole Stoker's parrot!' Dobson asserted.

From inside the cottage, clear and strident, came a squawk:  
'Help me, Obi-wan Kenobi. You're my only hope!'


	12. Chapter 12

**2ND AUGUST**

 

'Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi, you're my only hope!'

Constable Dobson's eyes flew wide with a sharp recognition. 'What was that?'  
I cast a furtive look inside the cottage, grasping at the first lame idea that offered itself. 'Um... you nerf-herder! I'd just as soon kiss a wookiee!' I squeaked, in a poor imitation of Celia's avian pipes.

Sergeant Voules examined me as if I had just sprayed shaving cream down his trousers and proceeded to slap him with a live trout.  
'Star Wars, don't you know,' I explained. 'I'm mad for it. Just throwing out some of Leia's best, on a whim.'  
Don't judge me, I was grasping at straws.

A massive, slightly maniacal smile brightened Dobson's map. 'You ledge! I've seen every single film at least twelve times!'  
'You have?'  
'It's me favourite ever! I were planning on a marathon tonight, back at home. Uncle Henry ain't seen 'The Force Awakens' or 'The Last Jedi' yet. Why don't you pop over and join us? All the better to protect you from those marauders, eh?'  
Far be it for this Wooster to turn down an evening of Oscar Isaac and John Boyega. 'Sounds grand, old thing. Shall I supply the snacks?'  
Mercifully, Celia had the decency to wait until they'd left before chirruping 'Live long and prosper'.

***

You know, if you are one of those louts who goes around making assumptions about the populace based on stereotypes, you tend to miss out on a great deal of little joys. Take my new chum Constable Dobson, for instance. While the constabulary are not typically a species compatible with Bertram, old Dobson is a notable exception. Not only is his knowledge of the Star Wars universe exceedingly profound, but he's a real lark when it comes to chit-chat and general boyish antics. By the time the credits were rolling for 'The Last Jedi', we'd fallen into such an easy rapport that we were periodically tossing popcorn into one another's waiting gobs. I was feeling quite inclined to introduce him to my fellow Drones - he seemed the sort who'd flourish on our gaming nights and drawn out caffeine binges.  
Sergeant Voules, for his part, had been remarkably tolerant of the odd piece of popcorn that ricocheted off his forehead. I can't say he was terribly impressed by the films, but I could tell that the familial bonds with his nephew were tight. The things we do for love, I suppose.

Dobson walked me home, still keeping one eye peeled for any rogue parrots or marauders, and I enjoyed a peaceful sleep (despite the lingering smart of the swan bites). I was up bright and early the next morning to spot a procession of PEACUK members, clad in their tell-tale forest green, making their way up the gravel drive to the hall. Madeline was at the front of the mob, and soon spotted me.  
'Oh Bertie, do come with us! We're delivering our petition to Chuffy.' She yanked me into the group with a surprisingly strong grip.  
'Where's Gussie?' I asked her gingerly.  
'Oh, who cares.' Her light treble soprano plummeted to a grumbly depth that I had never heard before.

Her dainty little fist rapped on the lofty front door, and the housekeeper directed us into the formal lounge. 'Lord Chuffnell is currently at a breakfast meeting in the dining room. I will let him know you have called on him.'  
I suspected that the place was currently crawling with Stokers, which did not fill me with confidence.  
  
A few minutes later, Chuffy popped in with Pauline in tow. Madeline wasted no time.  
'Chuffy, we are here as representatives of PEACUK. We beg you to cancel this deal with Mr Stoker.'  
'Chuffnell Regis is an historic town proud of its heritage and its character,' continued one rather matronly campaigner. 'This vulgar country club will not only lay waste to the hall and its surrounding wilderness, but will attract an influx of tourism that the town's infrastructure and environment will be unable to cope with.'  
'Think of the hedgehogs!' Madeline urged.

The great ream of signatures was handed over, and an apologetic sadness drooped Chuffy's shoulders.  
'I'm awfully sorry about all this. No offense to your father, Pauline, but were there an option more beneficial to the town, I would choose it. However, I now have obligations to uphold, and-'  
His words fell flat, as two giggling idiots could suddenly be heard clambering their way down the marble staircase. Gussie and Emerald barrelled into the lounge, entwined in one another's arms and both clad in fine examples of Emerald's frilly lingerie. I felt slightly nauseated when I realised that Gussie was wearing a rather enchanting shade of dusky rose lip-gloss - in many more places than just his mouth.

The cavalier indifference that Madeline had formerly expressed was nowhere to be seen. She let out a shriek worthy of a B-movie damsel, tearing away from the group and throwing herself onto the nearest available piece of furniture (a chaise lounge, if you can believe it), erupting into a great squall of violent tears.  
Before I could move to comfort her, the entire female contingent of PEACUK swarmed to her side in a fit of collective maternal solace.  
I about-faced to the two-timing scoundrel. 'Fink-Nottle! You... you... BUTTERFLY!' I exclaimed.  
'Oh Em,' Pauline scolded her sister, joining in with my theme. 'How _could_ you?'  
Emerald didn't seem to take this reprimand kindly. 'Oh, come on Pauline. Look who's talking. You're quite happy to go around kissing that Wooster boy.'

Well, there it was, just as I had predicted. Chuffy's complexion flashed a shade of burgundy that even Aunt Dahlia would struggle to achieve. He glared at both Pauline and self as if we were a pair of cats who'd willfully knocked his best china onto the tiles.  
Gussie rolled his eyes, and turned to his lady-friend. 'Come on Em, let's get dressed. We can catch the train up to London, and I'll take you out to the aquarium this afternoon.'  
'You're on, babe!'  
They turned their satiny tails and flounced back up the stairs, leaving Pauline and Madeline to their respective miseries.

It was at this strategic moment that Stoker himself, followed by Bingley and Reg, decided it was a spiffing idea to join in the fun.  
'What is the meaning of this!?' Stoker bellowed. 'Chuffnell, I came here to conduct business, and you run off in the middle of negotiations to consort with these bleeding-heart pinkos?' He indicated the PEACUK throng. I repressed the impulse to correct Stoker on the colour of their attire. 'I have half a mind to get Bingley here to dispose of them.'  
At this, a certain peppiness lit up Bingley's craggy face, but it was dimmed by Reg's prudent 'I could not advise it, sir. It is best if you keep all interactions on the premises as civil as possible.'  
Chuffy then turned to Reg, clearly anxious to smooth out the chaos. 'Is there any contingency we can make in regards to the wildlife on the estate grounds?'

Before Reg could even open his mouth, another blustering interruption stormed its way in: the housekeeper reappeared, admitting the thundering tread of Roderick Spode. Two black-suited goons flanked him, both smaller and smarter-looking than Bingley.  
He cut through the muddle of people like a truant officer through a delinquent's excuses.  
'Chuffnell,' he announced, 'I am apalled that you would dare to condemn your family home to the whims of these _Americans_.' He indicated the Stokers before us, handling the word 'Americans' like something he would be reluctant to bring before his mother. 'Therefore, I present to you a solution that will be simpler, maintain the character and the heritage of the estate, and most importantly, protect the inestimable native flora and fauna of the area. Moreover, I am quite prepared to match Stoker's price tag.'

With a snap of his fingers, one goon opened a laptop, and Chuffy was bestowed with a sleek Powerpoint presentation.  
Spode continued his pitch. 'Plans for The Chuffnell Regis Wildlife Sanctuary have already gotten approval for construction from Chuffnell Regis District Council, The Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors, and The Secretary of State for Environment and Rural Affairs. Furthermore, I have spoken to the chairperson of PEACUK, who has agreed to become a key supporter. Apart from restoration on the hall, little development will be required. The building itself will become home to a ranger's station, laboratory, and education centre, as well as a cafe and gift shop. While few large structures will be required on the grounds, we do intend to build a state-of-the-art aviary and incubation shed. We are currently in talks with both London and Melbourne Zoos to set up a breeding program for a variety of rare and endangered parrots.'  
He paused for breath, and added 'I was planning to arrange a meeting with you next week, to discuss the particulars of the project. However, needs must when the tangerine devil drives.' The stink-face he levelled at Stoker could have won medals.

A silent, reeling moment overcame the entire room. It was like one of those folksy, swashbuckling tales, where the bedraggled stranger who bests all the king's champions in combat reveals himself to be the long lost Lord Thingummy, greatest hero in all the land. The vainglorious smirk draped across Spode's map certainly expressed the notion that he was all that and a packet of Maltesers.

'What a bunch of hooey!' Stoker blurted. 'Chuffnell, don't waste your time with this fiasco. My country club is gonna bring jobs to this town of yours, and put it on the map!'  
'Oh yes, minimum wage and infamy, what a boon,' one campaigner snapped. 'Surely the choice is simple, Chuffnell?'  
  
Chuffy was left blinking rapidly, obviously quite flustered. He consulted Reg once again. A hushed exchange passed between them, and the occupants of the room held their breath in sync.  
'If you would be so kind, I really must dismiss you all for the moment.' After the collective groan went up, Chuffy cast a single pained look in Pauline's direction. Then, he asked: 'Spode, may I speak with you and your colleagues later today?'

At this, the groan fluidly morphed into gushes of astonishment and gratification. Obviously no papers had been signed yet, but one could sense how the tide was turning. Stoker's nostrils flared as he stalked up to Chuffy and jabbed a finger into his chest. 'You're treading on thin ice here, Chuffnell.'  
With that threat, he summoned Bingley, and barged off. The heavy front doors boomed behind him.

In direct contrast, the piping squeal of Madeline turned every last head: 'Oh, _Roderick,_ you wonderful wonderful man!'  
She sprung up from her plaintive recline, rocketed across the room, and planted a huge wet kiss on the great ogre.  
This display inspired a round of whooping applause from PEACUK. Spode, for his part, was in such a state of blissful stupefaction that I was worried he was going to keel over.  
The mob began chanting 'Spode! Spode! Spode!', ferrying their saviour out the door, with Madeline draped adoringly over his brawny arm. I only hoped the premature celebration wasn't to be in vain.

As the cheerful clamour faded into the distance, Chuffy returned his attention to myself and Pauline.  
'As I said before, I would like you to leave,' he commanded coldly.  
'But Chuffy-' Pauline and I uttered in unison.  
'Get out.'  
As we slunk towards the door, I dared not steal a glimpse at Reg.

***

We fled out to the respite of the estate gardens, and Pauline instantly voiced the thought: 'Don't take this the wrong way, Bertie, buy why are men so infuriatingly dense?'  
'Something to do with complexes, I think?' I guessed. 'We can struggle a bit with nuance, I'll grant you.'  
'It's just so damned cynical of Chuffy to have assumed the worst about us. And with you being such an old and trusted friend of his, too!' She flopped down on a bench beneath the lemon eucalypts. Leaning her downturned face upon her hand, she mused 'Typical. The moment I start really falling for a guy, he makes a snap judgement about me and tosses me out like a used tissue.'

I was about to say 'Tell me about it', when the fact of Chuffy and Pauline's mutual affection dawned on me. 'Now wait a minute,' I countered. 'If old Chuffy didn't feel a pang for you, he would have been completely unmoved by the news of our long-ago snog. In fact, he spent a good half-hour yesterday morning regaling me with the finer details of your charms and your graces. Take heart, Pauline, I promise you that the bloke is potty about you!'  
Her features cheered slightly. 'You think so?'  
I began to pick up speed. 'I warrant that if you approach him once he's cooled off, and just impart the plain and simple truth of things, he will melt into your waiting arms like baked camembert. You do realise that the main reason he was willing to unload the estate onto your father was to impress you?'  
A pretty blush bloomed on her cheek, and her dark eyes shone. 'Gosh...' she simpered. 'That's almost chivalrous, in an incredibly stupid way. But he needn't mind my father - Daddy hates almost everything, apart from scotch and cigars. I should take Chuffy home to meet my mom and her wife, they'd make such a fuss over a sweetheart like him!'  
It was encouraging to see the dear girl's spirits take such an upswing, given the turmoil we'd endured earlier. I gave her a pat on the shoulder.  
'Go and pick your nicest outfit, and invite him down the yacht tonight to make amends,' I suggested. 'I promise you won't regret it.'  
'Oh, Bertie, you're such a doll. Mr Jeeves must have been totally bonkers to let you slip away.' Here she laid a sisterly peck on my cheek, then swished off through the front gates.  
A little bittersweet sting accompanied my thought that the Wooster talent for matchmaking was still capable of hitting the odd home run.

***

That evening saw me with my feet up outside the Salty Newt, Chuffnell Regis' antique of a pub. Nursing a beer, I plucked away at my banjo, serenading the nearby Madeline and Spode with a languid 'Despacito'. I was glad of their union, but the sight of Madeline mawkishly hand-feeding chips to her suitor, his eyes glazed over like a tranquilised gibbon, was a tad off-putting. Given the glow of shameless beatitude thrumming off the both of them, I assumed that their lovers' levity was heightened by the success of Spode's pitch for the wildlife sanctuary. I'd heard tell that both parties had been quite agreeable over the afternoon's meeting, and the papers were to be drawn up and signed back at Reg's office in London the following week.

As I surveyed the glistening harbour, I absently noticed that Stoker's yacht was no longer in sight. Hopefully, that would be the last the town would ever see of the blighter.  
As I made a start on the first few chords of 'Sitting On The Dock Of The Bay,' my phone buzzed with a text alert. It was from Pauline:

_Bertie, something awful has happened. Daddy pre-empted my invitation to Chuffy. He asked him and Mr Jeeves to dinner aboard the yacht as a gesture of 'goodwill'. He is currently holding them both hostage under Bingley's watch. We are heading for international waters, where he will force Chuffy to sign over the deed to Chuffnell Hall. I have tried to contact Sergeant Voules, to no avail. SOS!_

Both Madeline and Spode looked up at the sound of my strangled wheeze.  
'What on earth is the problem, Wooster?' Spode demanded. I managed to rally enough presence to hold up the phone, showing both of them the text.

Spode's rickety old pub chair went clattering to the ground as the great hulk leapt from his seat, fists balled and canines bared. There was a time that I would have fled and ducked behind the nearest shrubbery at such a sight, but Spode's outrage at this crime was most sincerely shared.  
'THAT MANGO MUSSOLINI!' He roared. 'I'm going to pull out his spinal cord and thrash him with it!'  
As a matter of fact, Spode's brutish choler was lending courage to my own cowardly core. 'I say, Roderick, I know we've had our differences in the past, but I am feeling a distinct warming to you just now.'  
He turned to me with a steely resolve. 'Lord Chuffnell has a motorboat moored in the harbour that can do 70 knots. How are you at hot-wiring, Wooster?'  
'I couldn't say, but I'd be happy to give it the old college whatsit!'

With that, I slung my banjo over my shoulder, Spode planted a pash on his Maddie fair, and we sallied forth.


	13. Chapter 13

**2ND AUGUST**

It took a few YouTube tutorials, Reddit forums, and a dash of stubbornness to get the outboard motor going, but it wasn't long before Spode and I were zooming along across the waves. I fired off a quick text to Constable Dobson and tracked the GPS of Pauline's phone as Spode wrangled the wheel.

'I say, Spode, what exactly are you planning for us to do once we catch up to them? Should we create a diversion or something? Try and reason with the great lug?'  
Spode's hands gripped the wheel, his eyes plastered to the blue horizon. 'I'm going to rip out Stoker's tounge and make him watch as I feed it to the sharks.'  
'Yes, ah, we may need a little more strategy than that.'

Pauline, excellent woman, already seemed to have figured things out. We fired off a few more succinct texts between us. There was a large sun deck on the lower part of the stern. As Stoker was currently occupied in the main saloon, and Bingley was guarding the cabin where Reg and Chuffy had been locked away, the rascals would be none the wiser to our boarding the vessel. From there, she suggested we liberate the hostages before doing anything else. Lord knows how she hoped to accomplish this. Even with Spode on our side, the thought of tackling a behemoth like Bingley gave me an impulse to scramble back to London and dive behind my sofa, with a snappy pomeranian and a can of pepper spray. 

As the daylight began to fade, a great white mass slowly loomed into view on the sea. I girded my internals as we came upon the monstrous ship, praying that we would find Reg and Chuffy in one piece.  
Soon I discerned Pauline waving frantically to us on the sun deck, bearing a rope with which to tether us.  
'Quickly, guys. The skipper is preoccupied with dinner for the moment, we have a narrow window of time to gain the upper hand. Bertie, did you contact your constable friend?'  
'I think he's having a little engine trouble with the police boat. It's hard to say when or if the cavalry will arrive,' I replied.  
She cursed under her breath. 'Well, we're still in the Bristol Channel, so if they can get their butts out here they'll have jurisdiction to enforce the law.'

She smuggled us along a narrow corridor, and we were ushered into the relative safety of her cabin.  
'Okay. Bertie, change into my heliotrope pyjamas.'  
Had I gotten sunstroke? 'I beg your pardon?' I spluttered.  
She dispensed an oh-for-the-love-of-god-keep-up scowl, and explained. 'It'll make it easier for you to sneak around if you look like me!'  
'I hate to burst your bubble, dear child, but even a dolt like Bingley would be able to tell that we are not exactly twins.'  
'You look the part more than him,' she nudged her head toward Spode. 'Besides, if you do this right, he won't see you at all. You can borrow one of my lace fronts if you're really that concerned.'

As priceless as the notion of Spode dressed in silky women's nightwear was, I could see Pauline's point. As long as I kept my face obscured by said hairpiece, I would be far less conspicuous when creeping about the passageways.  
The stratagem she had devised was as follows: Chuffy and Reg were being held in one of the guest cabins on the lower deck. As it happens, one of the lifeboats fixed to the side of the yacht sat just adjacent to this cabin's balcony. I was to maneuver myself into the lifeboat and alert the prisoners within, then tossing them a tethered rope with which to climb out of the cabin to freedom.

The odds of bumping into a crewman, falling overboard, having the rope fail me, or any other iteration of my usual misfortune and clumsiness, were astronomically high. But as long as my chums needed me, I would step up. With Agincourt at the front of my mind, I set my slipper-shod foot into the corridor.  
I found my groove of shuffling noiselessly along the hardwood, peering carefully around each corner I came to, and returning to said shuffling, all while watching my back and keeping the thick coil of rope from dragging on the floor. That is, until I came to one particular corner that led to the open main deck. I cautiously eked my head around to peer at the uncharted space, and found myself staring into a pair of dark, all too familiar eyes.  
  
'Reg!' I crowed.  
He held his finger to his lips, frowning reproachfully. 'What are you doing here?' He whispered.  
'Rescuing you and Chuffy. Or, I thought I was.'  
The 15th Baron himself popped up from behind Reg. 'Why are you wearing those pyjamas?'  
'How did you two escape?' I shot back.  
'Mr Stoker failed to realise that he locked us in a cabin that shares a common balcony with the adjoining rooms. I managed to distract Mr Bingley by logging into Mr Dwight's Facebook account and sending him a number of baffling messages.'  
'You hacked a kid's Facebook account!?'  
'The password was easy to guess. In the past few days I have gleaned the young gentleman's obsession with John Cena.'  
'HEY!'

It was as if we had invoked him by the very utterance of his name. Dwight, that is, not John Cena.  
The little creep had appeared at the other end of the passageway, stuffing his face with a bag of crisps. 'DADDY! THEY'VE ESCAPED!' He hollered, and we made a break for it.  
This turned out to be a somewhat ineffective move, as a glowering Bingley lumbered into view before us. There was nothing to do but turn around and barrel past the brat, praying that we wouldn't be headed in a Stoker-wards direction.

The booming footsteps of Bingley behind us inspired a burst into top speed. As I smacked past Dwight, he snatched the lace front from my head.  
'SPODE!' I could hear Pauline scream somewhere behind us. 'GET BACK HERE!'  
'Not until I garrote Stoker with his own slimy tongue!' 

For a few surreal minutes, the yacht played host to a fracas similar to one of those Scooby Doo chase sequences. Bingley and Dwight hounded our steps, Pauline went after Spode, and Spode himself was on a rampage to hunt down Stoker. In addition, I think I spotted Stoker himself charge past me on the main deck, his toupee fluttering in the back-draft.  
For my part, I was attempting to find my way back down to the motorboat tied up on the sun deck. I bounded down a gangway and came upon Pauline's cabin once more. While I could spare the loss of my regular clothes, I refused to leave my banjo behind.  
I managed to snatch it up and sling it around my silk clad-back, before Reg darted into the room and yanked me along with him.

Somehow, and I'll be damned if I can figure out by what course, we all found ourselves in the grand saloon, where Bingley was currently occupied restraining Spode. He snapped and snarled in Bingley's grip, as Stoker quailed on the other side of the dining table. He was holding out a chair to shield himself, like some kind of squat orange lion-tamer.  
'YOU DESPICABLE, SNEAKY LITTLE LOUSE!' Spode roared. 'I will be damned if I let your underhanded skulduggery win out!'  
'I've taken on bigger guys than you,' Stoker insisted, scurrying back a few steps. 'I've paid off prosecutors before, and by thunder, don't think I'm not prepared to do it again. Even if your stupid little petting zoo _does_ get built, I have ways of getting it shut down. Heed my words - Chuffnell Regis will play host to my country club, whether the locals like it or not!'

'Daddy!' Dwight bleated, diffusing crumbs before him, 'that man is filming you!'  
Reg was holding his phone out, steadfastly capturing every wicked syllable that poured from Stoker's mouth.  
The villain's eyes bulged grotesquely, a louse caught in the headlights. 'Bingley, eliminate that fink!'

Bingley let go of Spode and made a grab for Reg, who nimbly parried away from the boulder-like fists. He made another swipe at the the man, which was the precise moment that the young Bertram boiled over into a full-fledged berserk. I would render the great troll into a fine paste before he even had a chance to graze a single hair on Reg's marvellous head.

With a great vault, I landed on the brute's back, making a hearty attempt to cut off his air supply. We thrashed and flailed about like two whatsits in a blender, sending silverware and bowls of appetisers flying. He did what he could to buck me off, but this cowboy could not be dislodged.

Grappling his massive hand across the dining table, the fiend grasped the handle of a chunky butcher knife.

They say that childbirth is the most singularly painful sensation that the human body is able to experience. For several logistical reasons, I shall be quite unable to ever test this data empirically. However, I am certainly willing to give the mothers of the world the benefit of the doubt. I doff my cap to those who have ever endured such a searing agony. If getting stabbed has any sort of close approximation to the ordeal, then please know that I at least understand your sufferings in part.

I think the point I'm trying to get at here is this: Bingley driving that bally blasted knife into my thigh was, by far, more excruciating than any event existent within my own feeble memory. And I suppose that the wild gush of adrenaline, not to mention a fair amount of disgruntlement, inspired me to use the last few seconds of my motility to grab my banjo and whallop my foe up the side of his fat head, with its hefty metal-edged belly.

Both of us collapsed to the floor, Bingley dropping like a dumbbell, self writhing and howling in pain. The whole thing had occurred so quickly that it took a few seconds for the bystanders to catch up.

'BERTRAM!' I heard Reg scream. Then his wiry arms were around me, gingerly and frantically inspecting the bloody mess on my thigh. 'For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!!'

It was worth a wound - it was worth many wounds - to once again know the depth of love and loyalty that lay behind that stuffed-frog mask. The clear, hard eyes were dimmed for a moment, and the firm lips were shaking. I discerned the hiss and the tear of fine fabric as he removed his jacket to fashion a makeshift bandage, tying it firmly around my leg.  
'I've ruined Pauline's heliotrope pyjamas,' I intended to say, but it came out as more of a 'Meeurgh...'

He rose, and moved behind me. The sickening sound of a few sharp, vicious kicks to vulnerable flesh cracked through the room. Bingley let out a pathetic reedy whine.  
'By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed him, you would not have got out of this room alive.' Reg's voice was as venomous and hateful as I'd ever heard it.

I confess that things got rather woozy after this. Apart from the hum of soothing voices, and eventually being lifted onto a softer surface, I don't recall much. Once I regained my marbles, I found myself laid on the backseat of a police car. Peering out at the dock, I could see a squad of coppers holding Stoker and Bingley in custody, as Reg and Chuffy held court. Pauline was clutching at both Chuffy and Dwight's hands maternally, her face set in stone. I felt for the poor girl, though the throbbing in my poor leg niggled at me like the dickens.

Eventually, Voules and Dobson stuffed themselves into the front seats.  
'Alright there, Bertie?' Dobson greeted. 'We hear you were quite the hero out there on the high seas.'  
I gabbled something quasi-verbal in response.  
'We're on strict orders from Lord Chuffnell to give you a police escort up to the GP's surgery. Old Madge has been alerted, and she'll be right to dress that nasty wound of yours,' Voules informed me.  
'You ain't got someone who can take you home, mate?' Dobson asked gently.

'I shall,' came Reg's answer. He settled himself delicately beside me on the backseat, placing my head in his lap.


	14. Chapter 14

**3RD AUGUST**

Old Madge, the local GP, crammed a watery mug of Ovaltine into my hands. Celine Dion was warbling away on the tinny radio.  
'There's a brave soldier now. Let me have a good butcher's at this wound, eh? Haven't seen a stab this impressive since my days in the Merchant Navy.'

I wouldn't say I'm the sort of custardy little weakling who sickens at the sight of blood, but I had to turn my eyes away as Madge gleefully palpated my gory thigh. I hid my unease in a long sip of Ovaltine, but I think Reg was wise to it, as he lay his hand lightly on my shoulder.  
She t'sked spryly. 'You're a very lucky young man. That cut came mighty close to your femoral artery. Had it gone a fraction deeper, it'd be all over red rover. No nerve damage either, just a bit of a puncture to the muscle tissue. A few weeks' rest and some antibiotics will set you right.'

She bustled off to fetch her suture kit, and I noticed a distinctly Stygian sadness come over Reg's expression.  
I tried going for optimistic. 'Just a scratch, eh?'  
He did not look up. 'I promised that I would never put you in danger again.'

It was hard to find a way to respond to this. A tightness gripped my chest, and I tried to catch his gaze with an unsteady grin. 'It wasn't your fault,' I offered.

Once I was all stitched back together again, I was sent off with some painkillers and doctor's orders to rest in a cozy bed. Reg bid me grip him by the shoulders, and he ferried me effortlessly to and from the waiting police car.  
I suppose there are certain connotations to my telling you that he carried me across the threshold of the cottage. But, well, he carried me across the threshold of the cottage. And laid me down on the four-poster bed, as a matter of fact.

'How are you feeling?' He enquired, in a deep, soft hush.  
'Bally awful,' I muttered.  
'Is there any way I may be of assistance?'  
In my exhausted, stricken state, my emotions had a good head-start on my discretion. 'Don't leave me,' I mewled.  
Another soothing hand eased itself upon the crown of my head. 'I won't.'

As I began to slump into a deep, codeine-induced slumber, I could swear I felt a gossamer-faint kiss on my forehead.

***

I awoke to clean morning sunlight, the toothsome aroma of eggs and b., and a veritable jungle of flowers and mylar balloons.  
'Good morning, Mr Wooster,' Reg intoned gently, depositing a sublime tray of breakfast before me. 'It is a clement day outside, with a light sea breeze and a scattering of cumulus clouds to the south-west. A top of twenty-three degrees is predicted by the afternoon.'

As I tore into my feed, I inspected the spoils of gratitude before me. 'What are all these, Reg?'  
'They were sporadically delivered to the door earlier today. The pink daises and teddy bear are from Ms Bassett and Sir Roderick. The bouquet of hazel-flowers and yellow roses is from Lord Chuffnell and Ms Pauline Stoker, as is the large packet of Maltesers. Lord Chuffnell delivered the bounty himself, informing me that he had picked them out especially for you.'  
'Good old Chuffy,' I remarked. 'How was he faring?'  
'He seemed quite buoyant. I couldn't help but notice that he was wearing Ms Stoker's preferred shade of lipstick.' Here he turned to the floral masses again. 'The hamper of Star Wars themed merchandise came courtesy of Constable Dobson. The others are addressed from various townspeople who were most appreciative of your part in last night's escapade.'  
  
Reg then coughed delicately. 'Another item was delivered this morning,' he told me, and here he held aloft the banjo. Or ex-banjo, I should say, as the great wallop I'd delivered to Bingley's head had evidently put it right out of commission.  
It was a pity to behold - the trusty instrument had served me well. And I had nothing to hand with which to play The Last Post, either.  
'Ah, Reg. What might have been.'  
'I am sorry.'  
'Oh no, no. Can't be helped, I suppose. Anyway, you lost your elephant, so fair's fair, eh?'

A slightly taut silence fell on us, and I dithered a bit, pushing eggs around my plate. My eyes came to rest on a luscious bunch of red roses on the night table, with no label.   
  
'If you require anything further-'  
'Don't leave me,' I demanded suddenly.

He looked a bit startled, but damn it, I would be heard. I put my breakfast tray aside and sat up taller.  
'Don't leave me. I mean... I know why you left me in the first place. I was was a self-absorbed cad, preoccupied with solving all my friends' problems for them, when I should have been dedicated to the comfort of the one person who matters most of all. Don't forget, _I_ promised _you_ that we would both be masters of the house, and I broke that promise carelessly.'  
I stopped for breath here, a bit overcome, but I pressed on.  
'Reg, I love you. I love you more than I ever thought I was capable of loving someone. And, blundering chump though I am, I would break a thousand banjos for the sake your wellbeing. Even if you choose to never return.' I pushed back a manly mist in the eyes.

It took him a moment to rally his rebuttal.  
'That night, what I said to you,' He began in a determinedly even tone, 'even given the height of my anger, it was atrocious and unfair of me. Please accept my apology. However... I never intended to stay away for more than a few days. Emotions were running high, we both needed space. I knew I would be visiting Chuffnell Regis. I believed that by the end of my trip, I would be missing you sorely. I was wrong.'

At these last three words, my skittish, fluttering heart fell like a stone.

'The very moment that I left the flat that night... all I wanted to do, and all I've wanted to do since, is return home to my sweet songbird.' His lovely voice cracked, and I instantly held out my arms to him, beseeching him into my bed-ridden embrace.

To the chums and blood relations of mine who are reading these chronicles: If ever you suspect I am slipping in my attention, respect and appreciation of this beautiful, irreplaceable beau of mine, I give you full permission to smack some sense into me and remind me of how absurdly fortunate I am to have been blessed with his warm and courageous heart. As it is, I am certain I will fall straight into line. After all, you don't come across a chap like Reginald Mandeep Jeeves every century.


	15. Chapter 15

**20TH AUGUST**

This may reveal me to be the most sugar-spun, fluffy-headed sap, but I do so love weddings.  
Quite apart from the bubbly and the nosh, there exists something glowingly jolly in celebrating the love shared by a besotted couple, whilst wearing one's nattiest garments and dancing to a playlist of ABBA and the B52s. And, despite my being the strongest of strong-willed _chevaliers_ , my track record of tearing up a little when vows are exchanged is a tad embarrassing.

Just this weekend, my Uncle George and his beloved Jaipreet tied the proverbials in a joyous celebration at Kew Gardens. The ceremony was an idyll of flowers and blessings and hand-fasting, followed by a spiffing reception, at which vivacious dancing and stuffing oneself on a huge Anglo-Indian buffet were the order of the night. Of course, given my still-healing battle scar, Reg adamantly ensured that the dancing on my part was more of a light, brief shuffle. I did at least get in one romantic slow dance with the blighter.

Once the newlyweds had taken off for their honeymoon in Tenerife, we scooted our way home, eager to put the kettle on and turn down the duvet. (Also, I must interject here to mention that Reg cuts a remarkably dishy dash in his traditional navy blue _kurta_. I've half a mind to upload some photos.)  
'That was the most enjoyable wedding I have ever been to. I hope that Lord and Lady Yaxley enjoy many happy years together,' he declared, as he daintily arranged the jasmine-and-tea-rose bridal bouquet in a sleek ceramic vase. Once the bride had lobbed the thing skywards, a swarm of womenfolk had begun the customary scrum in hopes of being the lucky legatee. Without so much as twitching his shapely brow, Reg had extended a sinewy arm, and the thing had fallen into his grasp almost obediently.

'I particularly enjoyed Jaipreet's sisters singing and dancing,' I replied as I reached for the Earl Grey. 'A pity that I wasn't able to match them with a proper Indian song. You don't think it was gauche of me to sing 'Come What May?'  
He treated me to a soft, doting smile. 'You were sublime, my bohemian. However, the follow-up of 'Poisoning Pigeons in the Park', though amusing, was perhaps less appropriate for the occasion.'  
'Oh, come on Reg, you saw the way Uncle George cheered. He was the one who introduced me to Tom Lehrer, after all!'  
He hmm'ed. 'I must admit I was tickled by the way Mrs Gregson ground her teeth.'  
'Speaking of which, dearest, should we ever need to escape from London, Uncle George has reiterated the standing invitation for us to trot down to his pile in Sussex.'  
'No doubt that refuge will come in handy at some juncture,' my man noted.  
  
Turning his back on the kitchen door, and the bustling world outside our little flat, he swept me into his arms like some glorious tango-dancing panther. (Not that panthers are actually in the habit of doing this, mind you.)  
'For now,' he purred, 'all I wish for is to settle into bed with my Bertram, and adorn his beautiful body with a profusion of kisses.'  
'Reg,' I breathed, as I clutched at his shoulders, 'you are a bally genius.'

Suffice it to say, the tea went untouched.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many many many MANY thanks and biscuits for the readers, the commenters and the kudos-ers. I LOVE YOU ALL MWAH!


End file.
